953 


The  Siamese  Twins 
And  Other  Poems 


The  Siamese  Twins 

And  Other  Poems 


By 

William  Linn  Keese 


Edwin  W.  Dayton 

Bookseller  and  Publisher 

763  Fifth  Avenue 

New  York 


. 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
WILLIAM  LINN  KEESE 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS. 


Contents 

PAGE 

The  Siamese  Twins 3 

Newton's  Blast 13 

Farrington's  Feat 20 

After  the  Wedding "  .      .  24 

Sic  Transit 28 

A  Modern  Enchanter 32 

On  the  Avon 37 

Captain  Joe ' 40 

The  King  of  the  Road 42 

At  the  Lake 44 

A  Tough  Customer 47 

Name  and  Fame 50 

Captain  Costentenus 52 

A  Summer  Idyl 55 

Lake  Otsego 58 

A  Memory 61 

The  Author  of  "Rudder  Grange  "  in  a  New  Role       .  63 


M191985 


Contents 

PAGE 

Ascertain  Your  Weight 66 

Apple  Blossoms 69 

Inspiration 70 

Captain  Calm 73 

An  Olden  Echo 76 

Thistle  and  Volunteer 78 

My  Flower 80 

The  March  to  Canton 8 1 

To  E.  F 83 

George  Eliot 85 

A  Ribbon 86 

My  Study 89 

The  Game  of  Love 92 

True  to  Principle 93 

To  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 94 

Ballade  of  an  Ass 95 

Instinct  or  Reason 97 

Queen  and  Woman 101 

James  William  Wallack 105 

Lester  Wallack 106 

James  H.  Hackett 107 

Dion  Boucicault        ...           108 


Contents 

PAGE 

Edward  A.  Sothern 109 

John  T.  Raymond    ...........  1 10 

Charles  Fechter 1 1 1 

J.  S.  Clarke 112 

Mary  Anderson 113 

Joseph  Jefferson 115 


Acknowledgments  are  due  Messrs.  Harper  &  Bros,  for  kind  permission  to  print 

the  poem  "Ascertain  Your  Weight,"  and  to  Ladies'  Home  Journal  for 

like  permission  to  print  the  poem  "The  King  of  the  Road." 


The  Siamese  Twins 
And  Other  Poems 


THE   SIAMESE   TWINS 


A    CHAPTER    OF    BIOGRAPHY 


J/TA  IS  common  to  speak  of  things  in  pairs: 

.1    A  pair  of  eyes  or  a  pair  of  stairs ; 
And  a  pair  of  legs  the  stairs  may  climb, 
With  a  pair  of  trousers  for  sake  of  rhyme; 
A  pair  of  gloves,  and  a  pair  of  shoes, 
The  hands  and  feet  to  match  if  you  choose; 
A  pair  of  scissors ;  a  pair  of  bellows ; 
A  pair  of  capital  jolly  fellows; 
A  pair  of  pigeons,  a  pair  of  wings — 
And  pairs  of  numerous  other  things ; 
But  the  pair  with  which  my  lay  begins 

Is  that  singular  dual, 

Original  plural, 
Known  round  the  world  as  the  Siamese  Twins. 


ii 


From  far  Siam  came  my  heroes  hight, 
(The  land  where  the  elephant  bleaches  white,) 
Whence  Siamese;  and  if  ease  they  ever 
Enjoyed,  it  must  have  been  there,  for  never, 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

When  in  this  country  they  cast  their  lots, 
Did  they  heed  the  teachings  of  Doctor  Watts. 
Their  names  were  respectively  Eng  and  Chang, 
Their  surname  Bunker,  which  has  a  twang 
Of  that  Island,  you  know,  just  off  Cape  Cod, 
Nantucket  yclept;  and  it  's  rather  odd 
That  a  name  so  calmly  unsentimental 
Should  be  borne  by  a  native  Oriental. 
Conceive  yourself  saying  "Mr.  Bunker!" 
To  either  festive  Siamese  younker — 
Bunker,  avaunt!  thou  hast  no  claim 
To  Chang  and  Eng's  united  fame. 


m 

Their  names  grew  out  of  a  family  hitch, 

How  best  to  label  t'other  from  which; 

And  we  gather  from  this  domestic  plight 

That  Chang  meant  "left"  and  Eng  meant  "right"— 

Suggesting  that  choice  American  game, 

Which,  had  Chang  and  Eng  ever  played  the  same, 

They  certainly  would  have  won  off-hand, 

For  both  held  the  "bowers,"  you  understand. 

As  regards  their  boyhood  we  're  in  the  dark, 

For  only  at  manhood  they  made  their  mark. 

No  doubt  it  was  much  the  same  as  others ; 

Of  Music  probably  they  were  lovers; 

And  if  they  were  the  Muse  discovers 
Their  favorite  song— "We  're  A  Band  of  Brothers !" 

4 


The  Siamese  Twins 


IV 


The  first  that  we  knew 

Of  this  famous  Two, 
Was  when  they  were  brought  to  public  view 

By  Barnum  the  Great, 

Who  then  was  in  state 
On  the  corner  so  near  St.  Paul's ; 
And  then  within  those  famous  walls 
Were  Thomas  Thumb  and  the  Woolly  Horse, 
By  which  we  were  gently  fleeced  of  course ; 
The  Bearded  Lady  one  there  might  see, 
With  her  chaste  moustache  and  mild  goatee; 
(And  whate'er  may  be  said  of  Barnum's  taste, 
This  humbug,  at  least,  was  not  bare-faced;) 
The  Quaker  Giant  was  popular  then, 
A  colossal  edition  of  William  Penn; 
And  the  Feejee  Mermaid  held  crowds  in  awe 
With  her  scaly  tail  and  her  open  jaw. 
But  everything  dwarfed  (including  Thumb), 
And  the  Happy  Family,  even,  grew  glum, 
When  Barnum  produced  his  greatest  wonder — 
Two  Men  that  never  could  live  asunder! 


The  people  flowed  in  like  Croton  water, 
Paying,  each  one,  an  American  quarter; 
For  these  were  the  days  before  the  War, 
When  Grant  was  a  tanner  and  gold  was  at  par. 

5 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

Little  dreamed  he  of  being  the  hero 

To  wield  the  sword  and  to  pen  the  veto. 

The  fame  of  the  Twins  grew,  at  once,  apace; 

And  this  seems  quite  an  apposite  place 

To  succinctly  paint 

Their  appearance  quaint; 

To  endeavor  to  fix, 

Without  being  prolix, 
The  aspect  strange  of  these  specimen  bricks. 

VI 

And  in  the  beginning  we  must  admit 
Their  beauty  would  never  have  made  a  hit 

In  court  or  in  bower : 

The  fact  is,  their  dower 
Was  something  better  than  beauty  or  wit, 
Stature  or  strength,  or  grace  of  action — 
A  thing  which  reminds  one  of  Shakespeare's  Jew, 
At  the  time  Antonio  looked  so  blue — 
A  bond  of  flesh  was  their  great  attraction. 
This  band  extended  from  breast  to  breast, 
And  Chang  &  Eng  was  the  firm  expressed. 
The  business  they  did  was  a  joint  affair, 
Like  other  copartnerships,  each  had  share; 
The  only  thing  they  could  not  divorce 
Was  the  gristle  that  Nature  held  in  force. 
Not  even  in  easy  Indiana 
Could  the  tie  be  severed  in  any  manner. 
6 


The  Siamese  Twins 


VII 

What  shall  be  said  of  this  state  of  things, 

Prolific  of  many  imaginings? 

Suppose,  for  a  moment,  Chang  were  ill, 

And  felt  like  remaining  perfectly  still, 

And  Eng  felt  splendidly,  au  contraire, 

And  of  all  things  wanted  to  take  the  air — 

How  would  they  fix  it !     Why  Eng,  of  course, 

Must  stick  to  his  brother's  side,  perforce, 

And  hear  him  fret  and  murmur  and  groan, 

And  see  pills  and  powders  down  him  thrown — 

Be  dragged  off  finally,  willy-nilly, 

To  bed  at  an  hour  absurdly  silly, 

And  lie  there,  trying  to  sleep  in  vain, 

With  thoughts  that  were  certainly  most  profane. 

Or  suppose  some  fell,  contagious  thing, 

Small-pox,  for  instance,  had  captured  Eng. 

Unhappy  Chang  would  be  sure  to  catch  it, 

And  then  how  inconceivably  wretched 

The  situation, — for  brother  and  brother 

Would  then  be  pitted  against  each  other! 

Or,  fancy  that  Eng  was  to  church  inclined, 

And  Chang  preferred  to  remain  behind — 

Either  Eng  must  relinquish  his  pious  path, 

Or  Chang  go  with  him  in  holy  wrath! 

Ah,  how  hard  the  fate 

That  makes  one  await 
The  whim  of  another  without  debate! — 

7 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

And  thus  with  Chang — for  Chang  was  weak, 
And  Eng  had  only  his  wish  to  speak; 

And  if  Chang  demurred, 

Then,  without  a  word, 
Eng  punched  him  for  being  so  absurd! 

Some  folks  there  are 

Who  quote  Hudibras, 
And  say,  that  he  who  runs  away 
May  live  to  fight  another  day. 
But  here  there  could  be  no  such  thing, 
For  how  could  Chang  run  off  from  Eng? 


VIII 

S.uch  were  their  lively  domestic  wars, 

But  never,  of  course,  at  exhibition; 
The  public  saw  nothing  of  family  jars 

When  they  paid  the  twenty -five-cent  admission. 
All  they  saw  was  a  singular  freak 

Of  nature, — aforetime  seen  by  no  man, 
And  was  of  luck  a  lucrative  streak, 

To  the  blandly-smiling,  complacent  showman. 
Every  day  brought  a  curious  crowd, 
And  wonder  was  vented  long  and  loud, 
As  the  Twins  stood  up  with  band  between, 
To  be  duly  gaped  at,  and  felt,  and  seen, 
By  the  baby-in-arms  and  the  horrid  boy; 
The  gay  gallant  and  the  maiden  coy; 
The  husband  young  and  his  blushing  bride; 
8 


The  Siamese  Twins 

The  family  man  and  his  smiling  dame; 
Aunts  and  mothers-in-law  beside; 

People  in  all  the  paths  of  fame, 
Of  every  profession  and  every  grade; 
Arts,  manufactures,  commerce  and  trade; 

Of  every  nation  and  every  name; 
Nay,  even  the  deaf  and  dumb  and  lame; — 
And  the  "deaf  and  dumb"  of  course  give  rise 
To  the  rather  matter-of-fact  surmise, 
That  they  probably  gazed  in  mute  surprise, — 
All  these  to  the  halls  of  Barnum  came, 
Till  even  the  sidewalk, 
Although  quite  a  wide  walk, 
Was  filled  with  a  jostling  crowd  of  the  same. 


IX 


And  now  it  was  that  many  M.  D.'s, 
Physicians  of  high  and  low  degrees, 
Began  to  be  rather  interested, 
And  wanted  to  have  the  question  tested — 
If  surgical  skill  could  the  Twins  divide, 
And  Nature's  whim  be  with  knife  defied? 
Far  and  near  the  excitement  spread; 
It  bothered  each  ^Esculapian  head : 
They  thought  of  it  lying  awake  in  bed; 
Thousands  of  works  were  bought  and  read- 
But  the  end  of  it  all  was  simply  this : 
They  felt  less  likely  to  hit  than  miss. 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

And  so  the  conundrum — can  human  art 
Take  these  two-volumes-in-one  apart? — 
Was  given  up,  and  the  Twins  went  on 
Attracting  their  fish  with  a  hook  of  brawn. 


And  much  of  the  lucre  they  laid  away 

For  that  axiomatic  "rainy  day," 

Which  means  in  spirit,  if  not  in  letter, 

If  you  have  an  umbrella  you  won't  get  wetter ; 

And  the  Twins  resolved  in  their  sunny  hours 

To  be  prepared  for  possible  showers. 

For,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  then,  you  know, 

The  Bureau  of  Weather  did  n't  show, 

And  quite  important  were  such  utilities 

In  the  absence  of  daily  "Probabilities." 

However,  the  fact  was  as  I  've  said  it — 

Their  Balance  of  Cash  was  a  chronic  credit. 

In  mercantile  phrase,  their  Stock  Account 

Was  good  for  a  very  healthy  amount. 

So,  weary  grown  of  being  admired, 

Their  contract,  too,  having  just  expired, 

From  public  life  Chang  and  Eng  retired. 


It  is  n't  recorded  in  any  book, 
How  each  the  digit  of  Baraum  shook; 
How  the  Quaker  Giant  returned  their  bow, 
And  called  one  Thee  and  the  other  Thou; 
10 


The  Siamese  Twins 

How  a  gallant  and  fond  adieu  they  waved 
To  the  hirsute  Lady  who  never  shaved ; 

And  with  mournful  face 

Passed  by  the  case 

Containing  the  Mermaid  of  Feejee  race; 
And  a  last  and  lingering  sad  look  cast 
On  the  Happy  Family,  now  all  aghast; 
And  in  silence  pressed,  for  grief  made  them  dumb, 
The  pigmy  fingers  of  Thomas  Thumb — 
And  so  they  forever  left  the  scene — 

Those  undivided  Two, 
And  with  the  band  of  flesh  between 

Marched  forth  to  pastures  new. 


XII 


We  cannot  those  "pastures  new"  explore; 

They  open  a  matrimonial  door, 

A  door,  on  the  whole,  we  decline  to  enter, 

And  here  the  Muse  must,  perforce,  content  her. 

We  may,  perhaps,  mention  that  damsels  two 

Enamored  became, — chacun  a  son  gout! — 

Sailed  gleefully  over  the  ocean  blue; 

And  the  quartette  finding  it  awkward  to  woo, 

And  out  of  the  question  to  bill  and  coo, 

Were  married  without  the  slightest  ado. 

And  whether  the  parson  had  double  fee 

For  making  these  couples  glad, 
We  cannot  tell;  but  we  11  all  agree 

That  he  certainly  should  have  had. 
ii 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

XIII 

But,  alas,  the  Twins  are  now  no  more! 

They  died  in  Eighteen  Seventy-four; 

And  their  wives  and  children,  where'er  they  be, 

No  part  in  this  chronicle  may  see. 

Only  a  backward  glance  to  throw 

On  what  was  of  interest  years  ago — 

As  our  fathers  often  delight  to  talk 

Of  landmarks  and  features  of  Old  New  York — 

Is  our  story's  aim — except  to  pay, 

In  a  sort  of  bio-graphical  way, 

A  tribute,  albeit  of  little  worth, 

To  the  famous  Brothers  of  Siamese  birth. 

And  when  they  died,  it  was  good  to  know 

That  one  fear  of  old  was  at  once  decided; 
They  had  lived  very  much  together,  and  so 

In  death  they  were  not  divided. 


12 


NEWTON'S    BLAST 

The  famous  engineering  exploit  of  General  Newton,  celebrated  in  the  following 
poem,  was  consummated,  it  will  be  remembered,  by  the  destruction  of  Hallett's 
Reef,  at  Hell  Gate,  on  the  afternoon  of  September  24,  1876. 

NOW  list  to  a  tale  of  blast  galore, 
That  happened  September  twenty  and  four, 
In  Eighteen  hundred  and  seventy-six. 
The  reason  I  'm  careful  the  date  to  fix 

Is  because  the  mind, 

As  we  often  find, 

As  time  rolls  on  seems  rather  inclined 
To  forget  than  remember  a  certain  date, 
That  held  an  event  or  affair  of  weight, 
Be  the  same  of  science,  or  church,  or  state. 
How  many  are  often  sore  perplexed 
When  asked  the  place  of  a  Bible  text, 
And  as  likely  refer  you  to  Jeremiah 
For  a  verse  that  is  only  in  Obadiah. 
And  is  n't  it  always  an  awful  task 
To  answer  the  questions  one  might  ask 
Relating  to  facts  of  general  history? 
The  facts  we  know,  but  the  dates  are  mystery ! 
For  instance,  can  any  one  name  the  day 
When  Andre  was  stopped  on  the  King's  highway, 
When  Arnold  was  trying  his  country  to  barter? 
And  can  you  conveniently  tell  me,  pray, 
The  date  of  the  signing  of  Magna  Charta? 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

What  year  immortalized  William  Harvey? 
When  did  Jenner  with  milkmaid  parley? 
Is  any  one  just  at  this  moment  able 
To  say  when  was  laid  the  Atlantic  Cable? 
You  have  n't  forgotten,  at  least,  I  hope, 
When  Farrington  crossed  on  the  wire  rope, 
From  tower  to  tower,  not  long  ago? — 
You  have?— Well,  did  n't  I  tell  you  so! 

So  you  see  I  'm  right,  if  I  am  prolix, 
In  making  my  mind  up  the  date  to  fix 
Of  that  stupendous  and  awful  event, 
To  see  which  thousands  of  people  went; — 

Which  is,  to  wit, 

The  Blast  that  split, 
And  knocked  into  smithereens  every  bit 
Of  that  horrible  rock  called  Hallett's  Reef, 
Where  many  a  ship  has  come  to  grief; 

But  never  more 

Shall  the  rocky  jaw 

Of  Charybdis  stand  open  to  glut  its  maw, 
And  devour  its  victims,  hull  and  spar. 
For  there  came  a  time  when  its  doom  was  cast, 
And  now  the  terrible  crisis  is  past; 
The  cavernous  monster  is  crushed  at  last 
By  the  dynamite  thunder  of  Newton's  Blast! 

In  Eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-nine, 
I  think  it  was — but  of  that  no  matter — 
14 


Newton's  Blast 

The  man  who  conceived  the  grand  design 

Of  making  this  rockery  somewhat  flatter, 

Came  down  to  look  at  the  place  infernal, 

And  his  name  was  Newton,  Lieutenant-Colonel. 

He  came  by  Federal  invitation, 

Armed  with  a  fat  appropriation, 

And  his  object  was  to  destroy  forever 

This  stumbling  block  of  the  flowing  river, 

And  make  it  decent  for  navigation. 

For  since  the  day  that  Van  Kortlandt's  ship 

Sailed  thither  with  Oloffe  and  Hendrick  Kip, 

The  place  had  been  growing  worse  and  worse, 

And  constantly  made  the  captains  curse, 

When  their  vessels  holes  in  their  bottoms  got, 

Or,  as  frequently  happened,  went  to  Pot! 

So  the  Colonel  came  and  surveyed  the  scene; 

His  heart  was  strong  and  his  eye  was  keen ; 

He  saw  where  the  water  boiled  and  hissed 

Above  and  around  the  rocky  lair, 

And  whether  he  hit  or  whether  he  missed, 

He  would  go  for  the  demon  then  and  there, 

And  never  whisper  the  word  despair. 

But  soon  he  was  given  to  understand 

That  only  by  taking  it  underhand 

Could  he  conquer  his  foe  in  wonder-land. 

Behold  him  then  on  that  famous  shore, 

Beginning  his  work 

With  never  a  shirk, 
With  an  iron  will  and  an  iron  bore. 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

And  for  seven  long  years  he  bored  away, 
Forgetting  the  world  and  all  around  him; 
Winter  and  summer,  night  and  day, 
In  his  subterranean  burrow  found  him. 

Boring  and  drilling, 

With  dynamite  filling 

The  holes,  and  when  loaded 

The  same  were  exploded, 

And  masses  of  rock 

Tumbled  down  with  a  shock, 

And  then  were  dragged  out 

And  piled  all  about, 

Till  a  mountain  arose  at  the  Government  station 
Of  the  debris  that  came  from  the  Reef's  excavation. 
And  now  was  seen  the  Newtonian  plan: — 
From  the  shaft  leading  down  beneath  the  wave 
A  series  of  tunnels,  suggesting  a  fan, 
Ran  into  the  reef  and  formed  a  cave; 
And  others  transversely  cut  those  through, 
Till  the  heart  of  the  rock  a  wonder  grew 
Of  columns  and  arches  not  a  few; 
But  hardly  a  grotto  for  nymph  or  siren — 
It  resembled,  to  take  a  poetic  view, 
The  dungeon  of  Chillon  described  by  Byron. 
These  columns  sustained,  now  bear  in  mind, 
The  superincumbent  mass  of  stone, 
And,  of  course,  if  Newton  were  so  inclined, 
They  would  stand  forever  if  left  alone; 
But  he,  not  having  the  slightest  feeling, 
Would  blast  the  columns  and  drop  the  ceiling! 
16 


Newton's  Blast 

Holes  in  the  pillars  he  'd  calmly  drill, 
Those  same  holes  with  dynamite  fill ; 
A  wire  would  pass  through  every  charge 
Connecting  with  several  wires  at  large; 
Those  wires  at  large  would  then  be  led 
To  a  battery  under  a  bomb-proof  shed, 
With  a  jolly  torpedo  overhead, 
And  another  wire  from  that,  you  see, 
To  the  firing  point  and  electric  key. 
Now  press  the  key — at  the  lightning's  call 
The  jolly  torpedo  is  seen  to  fall 
Plump  on  the  battery,  not  to  hurt  it, 
Only  to  make  the  electric  circuit. 
Darts  the  spark  to  the  gathered  wires, 
That  spark  that  never  delays  nor  tires, 
And  in  a  jiffy  the  whole  thing  fires! 
And  Newton  thinks  the  effect  of  that 
Will  be  that  Hallett  will  tumble  flat. 
Thus  waxed  prophetic  the  Engineer, — 
And  now  the  appointed  day  is  here! 


Day  broke  with  a  very  unusual  stir, 
And  it  broke  all  cloudy  and  rainy  too; 
But  that  did  not  in  the  least  deter 
A  crowd  from  flocking  to  points  of  view; 
And  every  available  spot  was  black 
With  the  constantly  gathering  human  pack. 
And  those  remaining  at  home  were  fain 
To  sit  and  play  with  a  time-piece  chain — 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

And  whenever  a  clock 

Around  the  block, 

Or  the  City  Hall, 

Or  Trinity  tall, 

Rang  out  the  hour,  with  each  vibration 
They  pulled  out  their  watches  for  regulation; 
Till  it  came  to  pass,  at  Two  forty-five, 
That  stoops  and  windows  were  all  alive 
With  people  who  waited  all  day  to  see 
What  Newton  meant  by 

TEN    MINUTES   TO   THREE! 

For  that  was  the  last  official  warning 

In  the  New  York  papers  on  Sunday  morning. 

Newton  stands  at  the  firing  point  ; 
Close  at  his  hand  the  electric  key, 
A  touch  of  which  will  the  rock  disjoint, 
And  give  to  Science  the  mastery. 
Whose  hand  shall  press  that  ivory  knob, 
And  awaken  the  lightning's  awful  throb? 
Lo!  the  hand  of  a  child!  for  now  appears 
A  little  maiden  of  tender  years. 
Her  hand  shall  send  the  electric  spark 
To  the  flooded  rock  'neath  the  waters  dark. 
The  General  receives  this  potent  fairy, 
His  daughter  she  is,  and  her  name  is  Mary. 
And  now  full  swiftly  the  minutes  pass — 
But  one  remains!  and  the  smiling  lass 
In  her  father's  arms  looks  sweet  delight, 
While  all  are  thinking  of  Dynamite! 
18 


Newton's  Blast 

The  moment  has  come!  Ten  minutes  to  Three! 

And  a  baby  has  set  the  lightning  free ! 

Drops  the  torpedo,  and  then  a  Boom, 

Which  makes  one  think  of  the  crack  of  doom, 

And  a  column  of  water  rises  there, 

Returning  with  terrible  crash  and  slam, 

And  wildly  seeking  the  upper  air 

Go  the  sad  remains  of  the  coffer-dam ! 

A  moment's  convulsion,  and  all  is  still; 

But  Newton  and  Science  have  had  their  will. 

And  when  we  sail,  as  hereafter  we  may, 
Where  no  longer  we  need  to  be  wary, 
Let  us  never  fail  this  tribute  to  pay — 
Three  Cheers  for  Newton  who  won  the  day, 
And  a  "tiger"  for  Little  Mary ! 


FARRINGTON'S   FEAT1 

LL  hail  immortal  Farrington! 

The  dauntless  Engineer, 
Who  hath  the  crown  of  glory  won 
In  this  Centennial  year. 

On  August  twenty-sixth,  this  man, 

Like  some  colossal  midge, 
Was  seen  to  flit  across  the  span 

Of  our  stupendous  Bridge. 

To  celebrate  this  hero's  flight, 

O  Muse,  my  pen  inspire, 
That  I  in  numbers  may  relate 

How  he  traversed  the  wire. 

They  talk  of  Tell's  historic  lad, 

When  it  was  hit  or  miss; 
A  narrow  escape  indeed  he  had — 

A  narrower  one  was  this! 

And  what  was  Israel  Putnam's  ride, 

Or  Dan  O'Leary's  walk, 
To  this  bold  leap  across  the  tide 

'Twixt  Brooklyn  and  New  York? 

1  Farrington  was  the  first  man  to  cross  the  span  of  the 

Brooklyn  Bridge. 

20 


Farrington's  Feat 

The  only  being  who  essayed 

Achievement  like  this  thing, 
Was  Paganini,  he  who  played 

The  fiddle  on  one  string! 

There  stretched  the  wires  at  dizzy  height 

Above  the  flow  and  ebb, 
So  high,  they  seemed  to  human  sight 

Titanic  spiders'  web ! 

Now  is  it  true  that  mortal  can 

That  thread  of  iron  ride? 
You  might  as  well  expect  a  man 

A  kite-string  to  astride! 

But  ah,  what  mean  the  deafening  cheers? 

And  what  the  skyward  stare? — 
Lo!  "buggy"  't  is  that  now  appears, 

Suspended  in  mid  air. 

And  when  I  say  a  "buggy,"  mind 

I  do  not  mean,  of  course, 
A  creature  of  the  insect  kind, 

Or  wagon  for  a  horse — 

A  "buggy"  is  a  cage,  in  fact, 

Composed  of  iron  straps, 
And  not  unlike — to  be  exact — 

A  hoop-skirt  in  collapse. 

21 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

But  what  is  that  behind  the  bars? 

And  echo  answers — what? 
So  far  from  earth,  so  near  the  stars, 

It  seemeth  but  a  dot. 

(A  dot! — now  what  a  chance  this  is 

To  make  a  fearful  pun. 
I  '11  do  it  in  parenthesis — 

A  dot,  and  carry  one!) 

A  dot,  and  well  it  carries  one 

Above  the  briny  deep — 
The  dauntless  eyes  of  Farrington 

From  out  the  buggy  peep. 

And  now  is  heard  the  engine's  toil, 
And,  slowly  o'er  the  grooves, 

Yet  smoothly,  as  tho'  led  through  oil, 
The  wire  "traveler"  moves. 

And,  with  its  precious  human  freight, 

It  bears  the  buggy  on, 
While  far  below  the  conquered  strait 

Owns  its  dominion  gone. 

And  now,  at  last — triumphant  hour! 

The  traveler's  course  is  sped. 
And  Farrington,  from  yonder  tower, 

Proclaims  two  cities  wed! 
22 


Farrington's  Feat 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  for  Farrington! 

And  let  the  cannon  roar, 
Until  the  echo  of  each  gun 

Resound  from  shore  to  shore. 

Ten  thousand  eyes  beheld  thy  deed 
On  that  immortal  day — 

And  may  the  same  glad  optics  read 
This  unpretending  lay. 


AFTER   THE   WEDDING 

ALL  alone  in  my  room  at  last! 
XJL   I  wonder  how  far  they  have  traveled  now? 
They  '11  be  very  far  when  the  night  is  past; 

And  so  would  I,  if  I  knew  but  how. 
How  lovely  she  looked  in  her  wreath  and  dress, 

She  is  queenlier  far  than  the  village  girls ; 
Those  were  roses,  too,  in  the  wreath,  I  guess — 

'T  was  they  made  the  crimson  among  the  curls. 

She  is  good  as  beautiful,  too,  they  say; 

Her  heart  is  as  gentle  as  any  dove's; 
She  '11  be  all  that  she  can  to  him,  alway — 

Dear!  I  am  tearing  my  new  white  gloves. 
How  calm  she  is,  with  her  saint-like  face! 

Her  eyes  are  violet — mine  are  blue : 
How  careless  I  am  with  my  mother's  lace! 

Her  hands  are  whiter  and  softer,  too. 

They  've  gone  to  the  city  beyond  the  hill; 

They  must  never  come  back  to  this  place  again; 
I  'm  almost  afraid  to  be  here  so  still — 

I  wish  it  would  thunder  and  lighten  and  rain! 
Oh  no !  for  some  may  not  be  abed ; 

Some  few,  perhaps,  may  be  out  to-night; 
I  hope  that  the  moon  will  come  instead, 

And  heaven  be  starry  and  earth  all  light. 
24 


After  the  Wedding 

'T  is  only  a  summer  that  she  's  been  here — 

It  's  been  my  home  for  seventeen  years ! 
But  her  name  is  a  testament  far  and  near, 

And  the  poor  have  embalmed  it  in  priceless  tears. 
I  remember  the  day  when  another  came — 

There,  at  last  I  've  tied  my  hair; 
Her  curls  and  mine  were  nearly  the  same, 

But  hers  are  longer,  and  mine  less  fair. 

They  're  going  across  the  sea,  I  know: 

Across  the  ocean — will  that  be  far? — 
Did  I  have  my  comb  a  moment  ago ! 

I  seem  to  forget  where  my  things  all  are. 
When  ships  are  wrecked,  do  the  people  drown? 

Is  there  never  a  boat  to  save  the  crew? 
Poor  ships !    If  ever  my  ship  goes  down, 

I  '11  want  a  grave  in  the  ocean,  too. 

Good-night!  good-night!  it  is  striking  one; 

Good-night  to  bride  and  good-night  to  groom! 
The  light  of  my  candle  is  almost  done; 

I  wish  my  bed  was  in  mother's  room ! 
How  calm  it  looks  in  the  midnight  shade! 

Those  curtains  were  hung  there  clean  to-day ; 
They  're  all  too  white  for  me,  I  'ni  afraid : 

Perhaps  I  may  soon  be  as  white  as  they. 

Dark,  all  dark !  for  the  light  is  dead. 
Father  in  heaven,  may  I  have  rest? 

25 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

One  hour  of  sleep  for  my  weary  head, 

For  this  breaking  heart  in  my  poor,  poor  breast. 
For  his  sweet  sake,  do  I  kneel  and  pray ; 

Oh  God,  protect  him  from  change  and  ill ; 
And  render  her  worthier  every  way, 

The  older,  the  purer,  the  lovelier  still. 

There,  I  knew  I  was  going  to  cry ; 

I  have  kept  the  tears  in  my  soul  too  long : 
Oh  let  me  say  it,  or  I  shall  die! 

As  heaven  is  witness,  I  mean  no  wrong. 
He  never  shall  hear  from  this  secret  room; 

He  never  shall  know,  in  the  after  years, 
How  seventeen  summers  of  happy  bloom 

Fell  dead  one  night  in  a  moment  of  tears ! 

I  loved  him  more  than  she  understands; 

For  him  I  loaded  my  soul  with  truth; 
For  him  I  am  kneeling  with  lifted  hands. 

To  lay  at  his  feet  my  shattered  youth ! 
I  love,  I  adore  him  still  the  same ! 

More  than  father  and  mother  and  life! 
My  hope  of  hopes  was  to  bear  his  name, 

My  heaven  of  heavens  to  be  his  wife ! 

His  wife!     Oh  name  which  the  angels  breathe, 
Let  it  not  crimson  my  cheek,  for  shame! 

JT  is  her  great  glory,  her  word  to  wreathe 

In  the  princely  heart  from  whose  blood  it  came. 
26 


After  the  Wedding 

Oh  hush!  again  I  behold  them  stand, 

As  they  stood  to-night,  by  the  chancel  wall : 

I  see  him  holding  her  white-gloved  hand; 
I  hear  his  voice  in  a  whisper  fall. 

I  see  the  minister's  silver  hair; 

I  see  him  kneel  at  the  altar-stone ; 
I  see  him  rise  when  the  prayer  is  o'er : 

He  has  taken  their  hands  and  made  them  one. 
The  fathers  and  mothers  are  standing  near; 

The  friends  are  pressing  to  kiss  the  bride; 
One  of  those  kisses  had  birth-place  here, 

The  dew  of  her  lips  has  not  yet  dried. 

His  lips  have  touched  hers  before  to-night; 

Then  I  have  a  grain  of  his  to  keep ! 
This  midnight  blackness  is  flecked  with  light; 

Some  angel  is  singing  my  soul  to  sleep. 
He  knows  full  well  why  many  a  knave 

So  close  to  his  lady's  lips  should  swim : 
God  only  knows  that  the  kiss  I  gave 

Was  set  in  her  mouth  to  give  to  him. 


27 


SIC   TRANSIT 

A    SONG    OF   THE    SEA 

NOW  falls  upon  the  tympanum 
A  note  of  preparation; 
A  sort  of  loud-ascending  hum 

That  lingers  in  vibration. 
I  know  it ! — 't  is  that  vast  unrest 

Of  eager  human  beings, 
Who  mean  to  cross  Atlantic's  breast 
To  go  Old  World  sight-seeings. 

Alas,  I  see  but  one  result 

This  exodus  to  follow: 
It  may  be  deemed  a  thing  occult — 

Viewed  grimly,  it  is  hollow. 
I  try  a  living  tongue  in  vain, 

But  must  express  it  one  way: 
"To  Europe"  bears  the  sad  refrain, 

"Sic  transit  gloria  mundi." 

They  gather  on  the  promenade; 

The  hearts  of  all  how  light  are; 
There  's  not  a  single  soul  afraid 

On  Cunard  or  on  White  Star. 
28 


Sic  Transit 

They  pass  the  Hook  and  Southwest  Spit, 
Then  skirt  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 

And  do  not  mind  the  sea  a  bit — 
Sic  transit  gloria  mundi. 

The  steamer  cleaves  the  heaving  brine, 

In  fact,  "she  walks  the  water"— 
I  must  employ  Lord  Byron's  line, 

It  makes  description  shorter. 
Now  wake  the  watchers  of  the  sky, 

Where  erst  the  dying  sun  lay; 
But  slyly  winks  each  starry  eye — 

Sic  transit  gloria  mundi. 

Two  lovers,  in  communion  sweet, 

Against  the  rail  are  leaning; 
Their  looks  occasionally  meet, 

Exchanging  tender  meaning. 
They  talk  about  "this  splendid  trip" 

In  words  that  fall  like  honey, 
But  never  quote,  "There  's  many  a  slip" — 

Sic  transit  gloria  mundi. 

Yon  youthful  wife  and  husband  pace 

The  deck  in  happy  measure, 
And  on  the  dim  horizon  trace 

Their  bridal  tour  of  pleasure. 
"To-morrow  brings  another  day, 

How  far  will  then  our  run  be  ?" 
29 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

They  know  not  what  to-morrow  may — 
Sic  transit  gloria  mundi. 

Behold  the  man  of  dauntless  cheek, 

Superior  to  emotion; 
He  turns  impregnable  physique 

Upon  the  crested  ocean. 
He  saunters  where  the  sailors  are — 

Perhaps  a  yarn  may  spun  be — 
Unconscious  of  intestine  war — 

Sic  transit  gloria  mundi. 


The  ship  's  a  thousand  miles  from  home, 

May  all  the  Saints  defend  her! 
And  once  again  the  heavenly  dome 

Reveals  its  starry  splendor. 
But  where  are  youth  and  maiden  sweet? 

Where  bride  and  groom  so  sunny? 
And  vanished,  too,  has  the  athlete — 

Sic  transit  gloria  mundi. 

That  matchless  punster,  Thomas  Hood, 

Imagined  a  specific, 
Which  if  invented  surely  would 

Make  sea-trips  beatific. 
He  did  not  entertain  a  doubt 

'T  would  be  discovered  one  day, 
And  wondered  how  it  would  turn  out — 

Sic  transit  gloria  mundi. 

3° 


Sic  Transit 

"Roll  on,  thou  dark  blue  ocean,  roll !" 

Thy  motion  is  prophetic: 
Within  thy  depths,  from  Pole  to  Pole, 

Flows  fathomless  emetic! 
Ask  of  the  mariner  its  name, 

Interrogate  Jack  Bunsby; 
He  '11  tell  you  that  they  call  the  same, 

Sic  transit  gloria  mundi. 

Farewell,  enthusiastic  souls, 

To  Neptune  we  confide  you; 
May  all  the  ills  the  god  controls 

Be  only  those  inside  you. 
Blow,  Triton,  kissing  winds  alone 

To  cheeks  of  Mrs.  Grundy; 
But  chuckle  in  an  undertone, 

Sic  transit  gloria  mundi. 


31 


A   MODERN   ENCHANTER 

5/T^  IS  a  room  lying  under  the  roof 

JL      Of  a  house  which  is  proud  of  the  name; 
The  rich  from  the  door  keep  aloof, 

To  the  poor  it  is  always  the  same. 
*T  is  in  an  unfrequented  street, 

Where  a  sovereign  quietude  reigns; 
'T  is  a  wretched  yet  peaceful  retreat 

For  one  who  has  nothing  but  brains. 

Depressing  and  bare  are  the  walls 

To  him  who  peers  in  at  the  door, 
And  the  shadow  of  poverty  falls 

Long  and  lank  on  the  carpetless  floor. 
The  hearth-stone  lies  sleeping  in  mould ; 

The  chimney-piece  begs  for  repair — 
None  hears  the  complaint  save  the  cold, 

For  the  wind  is  a  reveler  there. 

Ay,  it  steals  through  the  crannies  and  chinks, 
'Neath  the  door,  thro'  the  pitiless  panes, 

And  it  reaches  the  lodger  who  thinks, 
With  his  eyes  on  the  moon  as  she  wanes ; 

But  who  heeds  not  the  touch  or  the  chill, 
As  he  sits  in  his  garret  forlorn ; 

32 


A  Modern  Enchanter 

Let  the  wind  work  its  own  wicked  will; 
'T  is  his  habit  to  laugh  it  to  scorn. 

Some  say  he  's  an  alchemist  rare; 

Some  say  he  's  a  sorcerer  grand; 
That  he  sits  through  the  midnight  up  there 

Looking  out  on  a  magical  land. 
But  the  bold  inquisition  of  day, 

When  it  opened  the  mystical  door, 
Turned  with  crestfallen  visage  away, 

For  it  nothing  but  poverty  saw. 

Not  for  them  the  enchantment  so  dear ; 

The  starry  hosts  only  can  tell 
How  the  garret  and  all  disappear 

By  the  Sorcerer's  magical  spell ; 
How  he  stands  in  his  splendid  attire, 

Supreme  in  imperial  reign, 
And  waves  his  hand,  crested  with  fire, 

In  the  air  of  his  royal  domain. 

He  stands  in  a  palace  of  Croesus ; 

Transformed  are  the  crumbling  walls; 
And  he  fears  not  the  thread  of  Lachesis 

As  he  sweeps  through  his  glittering  halls. 
'Neath  the  arches  of  gem-studded  ceiling 

He  walks  on  a  porphyry  floor, 
The  arrows  of  lustre  revealing 

The  robes  Elagabalus  wore. 

33 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

Through  a  vista  forever  extending, 

With  the  glories  of  sunset  o'erthrown, 
Through  air  sweet  with  odors  ascending 

From  flowers  that  Eden  hath  grown, 
Gleams  a  luminous  river  of  amber 

From  lamps  hung  o'er  fountains  in  flow, 
Where  jeweled  streams  ceaselessly  clamber 

From  the  star-brimming  basins  below. 

A  volume  of  exquisite  cadence 

Floats  through  on  invisible  wing, 
From  a  choir  of  garlanded  maidens, 

With  uplifted  gaze  while  they  sing. 
Now  the  melody  rises  in  rapture, 

Like  the  song  of  the  lark  to  the  sky, 
Now  sinks  till  the  ear  cannot  capture 

The  notes  as  they  falter  and  die. 

Now  shapes  in  ethereal  vesture 

Come  thronging  the  long,  lighted  aisles, 
A  grace,  not  of  earth,  in  each  gesture, 

A  joy,  not  of  earth,  in  their  smiles. 
They  come  in  the  gladness  of  meeting, 

And  rapt  is  the  Sorcerer  now, 
His  arms  stretched  in  welcome  and  greeting, 

The  flush  of  delight  on  his  brow. 

And  this  is  the  wonderful  story 
The  starry  hosts  only  can  tell — 

34 


A  Modern  Enchanter 

Let  us  leave  him  alone  in  his  glory, 
With  the  loveliness  born  of  his  spell : 

With  the  fountains  still  ceaselessly  springing; 
With  the  fragrance,  the  bloom,  and  the  light 

With  the  garlanded  maidens  still  singing; 
With  the  shapes  in  their  vesture  of  white. 

Day  breaks  on  a  populous  town, 

And  it  gilds  an  unfrequented  street ; 
It  discovers  a  garret  forlorn, 

And  looks  in  on  a  lonely  retreat. 
We  remember  the  walls  and  the  mould, 

The  hearth-stone,  the  carpetless  floor; 
T  is  the  room  of  the  wizard  so  bold — 

But  where  are  the  robes  that  he  wore  ? 


Hark!  something  has  startled  his  ear — 

What  is  it?  a  step  on  the  stair: 
The  wizard  bends  forward  to  hear, 

Pushing  back  the  long  locks  of  his  hair. 
With  a  steady,  monotonous  tread 

Come  the  feet  of  the  fearless  unknown, 
Like  a  watchman,  when  midnight  is  dead, 

Pacing  slow  on  his  limit  of  stone. 

There  's  a  sudden,  significant  pause, 
And  a  groping  of  fingers  outside, 

Then  that  most  uninviting  of  doors 
Is  swung  from  its  fastening  wide, 

35 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

And  a  sombre,  lugubrious  mortal, 

In  clerkly  habiliments  dressed, 
Steps  in  through  the  Sorcerer's  portal 

To  the  room  which  has  never  known  guest. 

Down,  down  with  the  curtain!  for  never 

Shall  those  who  his  magic  revere 
Turn  away  from  its  beauty  forever, 

Turn  to  laughter  the  smile  and  the  tear. 
The  reverse  of  the  Sorcerer's  vision, 

Not  mine  be  the  hand  to  present ; 
It  would  only  be  viewed  with  derision — 

Think!    A  poet  is  paying  his  rent! 


ON   THE   AVON 

JULY    9,   1886 

I  SHALL  not  soon  forget  that  July  night 
When,  standing  on  the  bridge  in  Stratford  town, 
The  Avon  flowed  before  my  eager  sight, 

And  I  upon  its  darkening  breast  looked  down — 
The  goal  was  won,  and  fate  now  held  no  frown! 
My  dream  of  dreams,  for  many  waiting  years, 

Received  at  last  fulfilment's  golden  crown. 
I  stood  and  gazed  thro'  mist  of  happy  tears, 
The  while  the  wand'ring  wind  sang  music  to  my 
ears. 

"This  is  the  stream,  the  home  of  Shakespeare's  love. 

Many  a  time  on  nights  as  sweet  as  this 
Did  he  yon  meadow-path  enraptured  rove, 

Perchance  returning  from  Anne  Hathaway's  kiss, 

And  in  his  heart  the  roseate  dawn  of  bliss. 
The  grassy  slopes,  the  trees,  the  flowing  wave, 

To  him  were  beautiful;  he  could  not  miss 
One  touch  of  loveliness  that  Nature  gave; 
And  now  this  perfect  scene  encompasses  his  grave." 

So  ran  my  thought.    And  then  I  looked  afar 
Where  rose  the  spire  lit  by  the  early  moon ; 

37 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

The  river  beckoned,  and  the  gleam  of  star 
Ran  in  a  golden  line  upon  its  breast, 
Vanishing  where  the  shadows  lay  at  rest. 

There  lay  my  way  along  that  guiding  gleam. 

0  night  so  sweet!  to  me  forever  blest! 
For  now  my  boat  is  gliding  on  the  stream, 

And  nearer  draws  the  spire  touched  by  the  silver 
beam. 

Within  its  shadow,  resting  on  my  oars, 

1  sat  in  reverie  while  time's  pulses  beat; 
I  heard  the  river's  kiss  upon  the  shores, 

The   leaves'   low   dalliance  with  the  night  wind 

sweet ; 

No  other  sound  broke  in  on  my  retreat; 
And,  resting  so,  the  scene  a  picture  grew 

Heart-framed  in  memory  coming  years  to  meet; 
The  churchyard  and  the  lime-tree  avenue, 
The  stream,  the  shade,  the  spire  above  the  grave  I 
knew. 

Lo,  as  I  mused,  amid  the  foliage 

Methought  I  saw  shapes  moving  to  and  fro — 
The  hoary  locks  of  Lear,  tossed  high  in  rage; 

Othello  torn  with  doubt ;  the  Dane  with  woe  ; 

Miranda  at  the  feet  of  Prospero; 
The  face  of  Rosalind  in  rosy  glee; 

Macbeth  recoiling  from  prophetic  foe; — 
They  pass  me  on  the  shores  of  fantasy, 
Beside  the  sacred  dust  of  him  that  set  them  free. 

38 


On  the  Avon 

The  world  has  grown  since  thou,  long  centuries  gone,. 

In  yonder  timbered  cottage  drew  thy  breath ; 
Speech,  customs,  manners,  have  been  all  outworn ; 

Victoria  reigns  and  not  Elizabeth; — 

But  thou  still  reigneth  in  despite  of  death. 
What  tho'  o'er  ocean's  chasm  lightnings  flow, 

And  science  shall  new  miracles  bequeath — 
The  vernal  freshness  of  thy  lips  we  know 
As   when   they   spoke   thy   thought   three   hundred 
years  ago. 

O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory,  since  he 

Reposes  thus  upon  the  heart  of  man  ? 
Life  gathers  to  itself  his  legacy, 

Exhaustless,  tho'  life  spend  it  how  it  can ; 

A  fuller  spring  than  when  it  first  began. 
O  think  what  elements  and  powers  were  driven 

In  the  brief  running  of  his  mortal  span — 
If  such  the  might  quick  years  to  earth  have  given, 
What  then  the  eternal  life  his  spirit  found  in  heaven ! 


39 


CAPTAIN  JOE 

A    TRUE    STORY 

I  AGREE  in  the  main  to  what  you  say, 
That  a  sailor's  tongue  runs  glibly  to  evil; 
But  I  guess  you  never  knew  Cape  Cod  Joe, 
And  the  way  he  chose  to  euchre  the  Devil. 
I  was  passenger  once  along  with  him, 

.When  the  fish  was  plenty  off  Brunswick  shore ; 
But  the  limit  was  fixed,  and  whoever  transgressed, 
Ran  the  nose  of  his  vessel  against  the  law. 

Yet  Joe  and  his  brother  skippers  tossed  up — 

The  head  was  for  law,  and  the  tail  to  go  in ; 
And  as  often  happens  when  brimstone  's  around, 

The  Devil  decided  his  tail  should  win. 
So  the  captains  all  went  in  on  the  lay, 

And  netted  a  million  without  much  noise; 
And  the  fok'sals  chuckled  that  night  to  think 

How  smartly  they  'd  weathered  the  Canada  boys. 

But  next  morning,  as  soon  as  the  sun  was  up, 
A  party  hailed  from  a  Government  craft; 

And  we  guessed  that  suspicions  had  been  afloat, 
And  it  's  very  certain  that  nobody  laughed. 

The  Dominion  colors  were  soon  alongside, 
And  the  officers  boarded  us,  every  smack; 
40 


Captain  Joe 

And  whatever  they  may  have  surmised,  you  bet, 
When  they  looked  in  the  holds,  they  were  taken 
aback. 

Well,  the  skippers  were  questioned  one  by  one, 

And  solemnly  each  on  the  Bible  swore, 
"The  fish  that  you  see,  however  the  luck, 

Was  taken  at  least  three  mile  off  shore." 
But  when  they  got  round  to  Captain  Joe, 

He  spoke  out  thus  to  the  law's  demand : 
"Masters,  the  fish  you  see  in  my  hold, 

Was  there" — and  he  pointed  a  bowshot  from  land. 

The  captain  turned  and  walked  to  the  fore, 

But  soon  was  the  centre  of  all  the  rest; 
"Serve  yer  right  for  a  cursed  fool! 

Yer  schooner  's  a  goner;  which  way  was  best?" 
Captain  Joe  was  leaning  against  the  rail; 

He  rolled  on  the  circle  unquailing  eye — 
"D'  yer  think  the  loss  of  a  d d  old  schooner 

Is  enough  to  make  Joe  Baxter  lie?" 

It  's  many  a  year  since  that  ugly  day; 

I  've  never  laid  eyes  on  the  captain  since ; 
But  whenever  the  Devil  has  tripped  me  up 

I  Ve  always  felt  something  within  me  wince. 
And  somehow  I  think  that  to  every  man 

There  's  a  little  of  angel  reminder  given — 
Whether  sailing  the  sea  or  walking  the  land, 

There  's  a  saving  rope  hanging  down  from  heaven. 

41 


THE    KING   OF   THE   ROAD 

"  Knights  to  his  arms  did  yield,  and  ladies  to  his  face." — Du  Vall's  Epitaph. 

VIA  WAS  the  year  sixteen  hundred  and  sixty  and 

1      eight; 
Hounslow  Heath  was  the  place,  and  the  hour  was 

late: 
The   horsemen   were   waiting   and   listening — when 

"Hark!" 
Spoke  the  Leader's  clear  voice — "I  hear  wheels  in 

the  dark." 

Then  up  rolled  the  Coach  with  its  booty  of  gold, 
With  the  Knight  and  his  Lady,  so  fair  and  so  bold, 
And  the  Maid,  apprehensive  of  what  might  befall, 
Should  it  chance  they  were  stopped  by  that  daring 
Du  Vail. 

Ah!  What  are  those  moving  mysterious  shapes? 
They  're  horsemen — they  whisper — they  throw  back 

their  capes — 

They  form  in  half  circle  at  word  of  command, 
While  the  Leader  rides  forward  and  bids  the  coach 

"Stand!" 

42 


The  King  of  the  Road 

Then  the  scream  of  the  Maid  drowned  the  oath  of  the 

Knight; 

But  the  Lady,  unruffled,  sat  calm  in  the  plight ; 
Nay,  rather  than  show  that  she  felt  the  least  fear, 
She  played  on  her  flageolet  loudly  and  clear. 

Then  up  rode  the  Leader,  on  hearing  the  tone, 
And  in  answer  played  deftly  on  pipe  of  his  own ; 
Then,    dismounting,    he    bowed    like    a    gallant    of 

France, 
And  begged  for  the  Lady's  fair  hand  in  a  dance. 

"On  the  Heath  here  with  me  one  coranto,  I  pray; 
I  am  sure  that  you  dance  quite  as  well  as  you  play." 
The  Lady  stepped  out  with  a  smile  on  her  face, 
And  they  danced  the  coranto  with  infinite  grace. 

What  a  scene!  the  Maid  fainting;  the  Knight  with 

hands  bound; 
The   gay   courtly   measure;  the  horsemen   grouped 

round ; — 

There  was  everything  there  to  be  picturesque  with, 
And  it  all  lives  again  on  the  canvas  of  Frith. 

'T  was  the  year  sixteen  hundred  and  sixty  and  eight ; 
The  Monarch  was  merry  who  ruled  at  that  date; 
Charles  the  Festive  was  King  of  Court,  Bower  and 

Hall, 
But  the  King  of  the  Road  was  the  daring  Du  Vail. 

43 


AT   THE    LAKE 

ALONE  on  the  winter-shrunk  shore! 
XJL  The  Lake,  like  a  crystalline  floor, 
Stretches  on  to  the  base  of  the  wrinkle-browed  hill. 

Cold,  heavy,  and  white  is  the  sheet 

That  covers  the  emerald  feet 
Of  the  waves  that  are  sleeping  so  deeply,  so  still. 

Proud  Night  in  her  glory  is  here ; 

Heaven's  high  palpitations  appear 
In  the  passionate  stars  that  the  angels  have  set ; 

And  the  light  of  each  diamond  face 

Comes,  cleaving  the  infinite  space, 
To  fall  on  the  world  which  they  never  forget. 

And  Winter  is  king  of  the  scene — 

He  hath  crumbled  the  yellow  and  green, 
He  hath  clasped  his  stern  fingers  round  Autumn's 
ripe  throat; 

The  forest  is  stripped  by  his  breath ; 

Its  skeletons  whisper  of  death, 
And  the  snow-bird  alone  dares  to  utter  a  note. 

I  shiver — but  't  is  not  with  cold ; 
I  tremble — yet,  still  I  am  bold; 

44 


At  the  Lake 

I  hearken — but  not  that  I  listen  with  fear — 
It  comes  from  the  sepulchred  lake; 
It  murmurs  and  moans  for  my  sake; 

It  breaks  its  ice-prison  because  I  am  here! 


O  hark!  how  afar  it  awakes, 

And  trembles,  then  hollowly  breaks 
In  a  wide-stretching  moan  to  the  uttermost  shore. 

The  soul  of  a  poet  would  leap, 

This  vigil  with  Nature  to  keep; 
But  mine  cries  aloud,  and  entreateth,  No  more! 


A  Summer  comes  back  to  my  eyes : — 
I  bound  beneath  pure  arching  skies 

O'er  the  billowy  life  of  a  wind-haunted  stream. 
There  is  glow  in  each  pulse  of  its  breast, 
There  is  joy  in  each  high- tossing  crest, — 

There  is  love,  there  is  hope,  in  my  youth's  daring 
dream. 


There  's  a  cry — but  it  is  not  a  bird, 

Nor  was  it  wind  only  I  heard : — 
There  's  a  boat  plunging  wild  on  a  tempest-struck 
wave; 

Her  sail,  like  a  hawk  shot  in  air, 

Flutters  madly,  her  form  to  upbear — 
She  is  sinking  in  death  with  no  power  to  save! 

45 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

There  's  a  pallid,  wet  face  at  my  feet, 

So  tender,  so  pure,  and  so  sweet, 
That  I  cannot  believe  the  soul's  farewell  is  there ! 

Lost!  lost!  and  forever,  that  face — 

And  I  stand  in  this  desolate  place, 
With  the  moan  of  the  Lake  breaking  full  on  the  air ! 


46 


A  TOUGH   CUSTOMER 

ET  me  tell  you  a  tale  that  was  once  told  to  me, 
And  although  it  was  told  me  in  prose  at  the 

time 

I  will  give  it  a  metrical  dressing,  and  see 
If  the  story  will  lose  any  reason  by  rhyme. 

There  came  to  the  store  in  a  village  one  day 

A  long  and  lank  stranger  in  homespun  arrayed ; 

And  "Good  mornin'  "  said  he  in  a  diffident  way, 
"I  've  jes'  come  up  to  town  for  a  bit  of  a  trade." 

The  proprietor  nodded  and  cheerily  spoke : 

"Well,  what  can  I  do  for  you,  neighbor,  and  how  ?" 

"Wai,  one  of  wife's  knittin'  needles  ez  broke, 
An'  she  wants  me  to  git  one — how  much  be  they 
now?" 

"They  're  two  cents  apiece."     "Wai,  say,  Mister,  look 
here; 

"I  Ve  got  a  fresh  egg,  an'  my  wife  sez  to  me, 
'Swap  the  egg  for  the  needle' — it  seems  a  bit  queer, 

But  the  thing  's  about  even — it  's  a  big  un,  yer 


47 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

Said    the    storekeeper    presently,    "Well,    I    don't 
mind"— 

He  laid  down  the  needle  and  put  the  egg  by — 
When  the  countryman  blurted  out,  "Ain't  yer  inclined 

To  treat  a  new  customer? — fact  is,  I  'm  dry." 

Though  staggered  a  little,  it  must  be  confessed, 
By  the  "customer"  coming  it  rather  too  free ; 

Yet  smilingly  granting  the  modest  request, 

The  dealer  responded,  "Well,  what  shall  it  be?" 

"Wai,  a  drop  of  Madairy  I  reckon  'ul  pass; 

I  Jve  bin  used  ter  thet,  see,  ever  since  I  was  born." 
The  storekeeper  handed  a  bottle  and  glass, 

And  his  customer  poured  out  a  generous  horn. 

For  a  moment  he  eyed  the  gratuitous  dram 

With  the  air  of  a  man  who  must  something  resign, 

Then  blandly  remarked,  "Do  yer  know  that  I  am 
Very  partial  to  mixing  an  egg  in  my  wine?" 

"Oh,  well,  let  us  finish  this  matter,  I  beg; 

You  're  very  particular,  though,  I  must  say" — 
The  storekeeper  muttered  and  handed  an  egg — 

The  identical  one  he  had  taken  in  pay. 

On  the  rim  of  the  tumbler  the  man  broke  the  shell — 
"It  's  cert'inly  handsome  the  way  yer  treat  folk:" 
48 


A  Tough  Customer 

He  opened  it  deftly,  and  plumply  it  fell 
With  a  splash,  and  no  wonder — it  held  double  yolk ! 

The  customer  saw  and  a  long  breath  he  drew — 
"Look,  Mister,  that  egg  has  two  yolks,  I  declare ! 

Instead  of  one  needle  I  Ve  paid  yer  for  two — 
So  hand  me  another  an'  then  we  '11  be  square !" 


49 


NAME   AND    FAME 

I  STOOD  where  the  billows  of  ocean 
Foamed  up  on  the  shining  strand, 
And  at  every  billow's  recession 

I  traced  my  name  on  the  sand; 
And  as  often  the  wave  returning 
Swept  o'er  it  with  eager  haste, 
And  the  sand  alone  would  be  left  me 
Of  the  name  that  my  hand  had  traced. 

And  a  lesson  it  seemed  to  symbol : 

That  the  world  will  as  careless  be 
Of  the  fame  you  crave,  as  of  your  name 

Is  the  sweep  of  the  mighty  sea. 
You  grasp  at  the  coveted  laurel, 

To  wreathe  in  a  chaplet  fair ; 
But  you  gather  only  the  cypress 

For  the  crown  you  had  hoped  to  wear. 

Then  I  thought  of  the  poet  of  England, 
Who  the  lyre  of  promise  awoke; 

Whose  strain  Hyperion  summoned, 
And  Endymion's  slumber  broke: — 

Who  died  in  youth's  rich,  sweet  graces, 
Like  a  blossom  before  its  bloom — 

5° 


Name  and  Fame 

"One  whose  name  was  writ  in  water," 
We  read  on  his  Roman  tomb. 

Is  the  world,  then,  so  unrelenting  ? 

And  may  not  the  poet  live 
To  launch  his  heart  on  the  tide  of  song, 

Nor  ask  that  the  world  forgive? 
Has  it  only  concern  for  trembling  thrones, 

And  nations  in  grim  decease? — 
An  eye  alone  for  the  sword  of  war, 

And  none  for  the  pen  of  peace? 

Not  so;  for  love  is  immortal; 

And  so  long  as  yon  vaulted  sky 
O'erarches  earth  and  its  sorrows, 

The  poet  may  still  stand  by, — 
Stand  by  with  his  lyre  of  heart-strings, 

Breathing  song  that  sustains  and  cheers — 
And  his  name  may  be  writ  in  water; 

But  the  water  be  human  tears ! 


S1 


CAPTAIN   COSTENTENUS 


Captain  Costentenus  is  an  Albanian  who  was  tattooed  from  head  to  foot  by 
order  of  the  King  of  Chinese  Tartary,  as  a  punishment  for  engaging  in  a  rebel- 
lion, decapitation  being  the  alternative.  On  the  body  are  reproduced  388  fig- 
ures of  birds,  beasts,  fishes,  serpents,  fabulous  monsters,  and  hieroglyphics,  pro- 
nounced by  prominent  medical  men  in  this  country  and  Europe  as  the  most 
perfect  specimen  of  tattooing  ever  seen.  He  was  on  his  way  to  exhibit  at  the 
Centennial  when  secured  by  Mr.  Barnum. 

"  T  TNDER  the  sun  there  is  nothing  new," 
LJ  A  familiar  quotation  is  and  Biblical ; 
But  Barnum  does  n't  believe  it  is  true, 
For  he  now  exhibits  to  public  view 
A  curious  thing  in  the  form  of  tattoo, 
Uncommon  and  hieroglyphical. 

Have  you  seen  this  remarkable  creature? 
This  wonderful  tattooed  Albanian ; 
Whose  each  individual  feature 
Seems  to  have  every  prismatic  stain  in! 

His  name  in  a  rhyme  is  unreachable, 
And  because  he  engaged  in  a  riot, 
A  Tartar  King  deemed  him  impeachable, 
And  determined  to  make  him  keep  quiet. 

Then  this  sovereign  made  him  an  offer 
Which  to  some  may  benevolent  seem; 
But  the  fact  is,  the  potentate's  proffer 
Was  a  sample  of  Tartar — the  cream ! 

52 


Captain  Costentenus 

For  the  King  said :  "Now  which  would  you  rather, 
Be  beheaded,  or  tattooed  all  over?" 
And  the  Captain,  of  course,  replied,  "Bother ! 
Let  me  live,  though  it  won't  be  in  clover." 

Then  he  was  translated  to  nudity — 

And,  that  I  may  not  wax  prosaic, 

At  the  end  of  three  months  to  the  view  did  he 

Loom  up  an  incarnate  mosaic. 

From  the  crown  of  his  head  to  his  feet 
To  aptly  describe  him  I  tried  a  trope ; 
But  to  turn  him  around  is  a  treat — 
The  effect  is  a  human  kaleidoscope ! 

Three  hundred  and  eighty-eight  forms 
Of  quadrupeds,  bipeds,  and  fishes, 
On  the  Captain's  legs,  body,  and  arms, 
May  be  counted  if  any  one  wishes. 

To  mention  a  few  would  be  suitable: 
It  has  cost  me  an  infinite  trial; 
For  those  who  embellished  his  cuticle 
Must  have  drawn  from  the  pages  of  Lyell. 

On  his  back  is  a  plesiosaurus  ; 
On  each  leg  an  iguanodon  tractile ; 
On  his  breast  is  an  ichthyosaurus ; 
On  his  stomach  a  gay  pterodactyl. 

53 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

And  the  fishes  with  wonder  will  strike 
E'en  an  ichthyological  learner ; 
If  you  want  to  know  what  they  are  like, 
Go  and  study  the  "Slave  Ship,"  by  Turner. 

Then  birds  that  one  never  could  guess, 
And  of  every  conceivable  paint; 
But  I  really  feel  bound  to  confess 
They  'd  make  Wilson  or  Audubon  faint. 

Then  things  that  no  being  can  name, 
Crowd  and  fill  every  crevice  and  cranny, 
Every  angle  and  space  of  his  frame, 
In  a  way  at  once  weird  and  uncanny. 

In  short,  this  tattooing  is  such, 
That  there  is  n't  a  ghost  of  a  spot 
That  the  tip  of  your  finger  can  touch 
Where  a  figure  of  some  kind  is  not. 

And  this  is  the  prize  of  the  Showman, 
Great  Barnum  was  early  in  time  for  it; 
And  I  '11  venture  a  wager  that  no  man 
Will  fail  to  see  Captain — no  rhyme  for  it! 


54 


A   SUMMER   IDYL 

WAS  the  close  of  the  season,  together  they  stood 
Where  the  path  leaves  the  meadow  and  enters 

the  wood. 

She  was  going  home  now,  and  had  flirted  away 
The  long  summer  days,  with  a  youth  at  Cape  May. 

She  was  lovely  and  rich,  he  was  handsome  and  poor ; 
She  a  belle  of  New  York,  he  a  farmer  obscure ; 
But  the  beaux  had  been  scarce  and  the  hotel  was 

dull- 
Then  what  could  she  do  when  her  heart  was  so  full  ? 

He  was  sunburnt  and  broad,  and  his  hands  they  were 

brown, 

But  his  eyes  had  a  freshness  unknown  to  the  town; 
And  his  hair  which  in  chestnut  curls  clustering  grew, 
Never  owned  a  Macassar  save  sunshine  and  dew. 

He  had  sailed  in  his  boat  with  her  form  by  his  side, 
He  had  held  her  light  foot  when  it  pleased  her  to 

ride; 

Like  the  Knight  of  Aslauga,  he  lived  to  obey, 
Yet,  alas!  he  knew  nothing  of  waltz  and  croquet. 

55 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

But  he  knew  every  haunt  where  the  wild  flowers 

grew, 

And  the  path  leading  up  to  the  loveliest  view ; 
And  tho'  he  'd  have  deemed  Mr.  Wordsworth  a  bore, 
A  primrose  to  him  was  a  primrose — and  more. 

"Well,  Richard,  good-bye  I  I  am  going  to-day ; 
Papa  came  last  night  and  will  take  me  away. 
I  thank  you  so  much  for  your  kindness  and  all ! 
I  could  not  have  stayed  here  without  you  at  all." 

He  silently  stood  as  her  parting  words  came, 
His  eyes  were  cast  down,  for  his  face  was  aflame ; 
Her  hand  for  an  instant  was  laid  in  his  own, 
She  turned,  gave  a  sigh,  flung  a  kiss — and  was  gone ! 

Then  a  cloud  floated  under  and  darkened  the  sun; 
The  voice  of  the  brook  ceased  in  music  to  run; 
The  note  of  the  robin  grew  suddenly  still, 
And  a  lengthening  shadow  crept  down  from  the  hill. 

It  was  only  a  sigh,  and  the  kiss  was  but  air, 

Yet  a  sweetness  remained  as  if  still  she  were  there. 

Oh,  to  stand  so  forever  and  dream  life  away 

In  the  spell  whose  soft  magic  is  broken  to-day ! 

Then,  as  if  in  a  vision,  his  farm  he  beheld, 
The  fields  he  had  sown  and  the  tree  he  had  felled; 
And  the  hand  that  so  long  had  forgotten  the  plow 
Must  again  wipe  the  sweat  from  the  laborer's  brow. 

56 


A  Summer  Idyl 

And  the  maiden  returned  to  the  city's  delights, 
Where  perhaps  it  is  one  of  the  opera  nights ; 
And  she  sits  in  a  box  with  some  gay  cavalier, 
While  the  music  of  Verdi  entrances  her  ear. 

And  it  may  be  she  hears  in  one  murmuring  strain 
The  pulse  of  the  sea's  everlasting  refrain; 
And  she  feels  once  again  in  her  face  the  salt  spray 
Of  the  billows  that  foam  on  the  shore  at  Cape  May. 

While  another  remembers  the  path  to  the  wood, 
On  that  day  when  the  air  was  so  sweet  where  he 

stood ; 

And  tho'  now  the  wild  winds  of  December  rush  by, 
He  can  hear  in  them  only  a  kiss  and  a  sigh ! 


57 


LAKE   OTSEGO 

Written  after  a  visit  to  Coopentown,  New  York. 

I  STAND  at  Edgewater l — and  there  forget 
That  life  for  me  hath  ever  held  a  tear; 
For  never  hath  a  picture  risen  yet 
At  fancy's  call,  more  beautiful,  more  dear, 
Than  that  which  now  lies  all-entrancing  here, 
And  limned  in  memory  ever  will  remain. 
The  graybeard,  Time,  will  prick  each  fleeting  year ; 
Yet  to  my  heart,  as  sweet  as  summer  rain, 
Will  come  October  and  the  "Glimmerglass"  again. 

Their  lie  the  hills,  as  quiet  as  when  first 
Their  calm  repose  the  painted  Indian  saw ; 
Or  when  the  form  of  Natty  Bumppo  burst 
The  forest  through,  and  on  the  wave-kissed  shore 
Paused  breathless  at  the  new,  wide-open  door, 
Where  Nature  waited  in  her  witching  guise. 
No  marvel  that  his  welling  heart  ran  o'er 
With  all  the  eloquence  of  glad  surprise, 
When  this  fresh  gift  of  Heaven  lay  bare  before  his 
eyes! 

Yet,  now  those  graceful  slopes  are  lovelier  far 
Than  when  in  June  they  wore  their  robe  of  green ; 

1  The  residence  of  G.  Pomeroy  Keese,  Cooperstown,  New  York. 


Lake  Otsego 

For  Autumn's  panorama  now  they  are, 

And  she  hath  stinted  not  her  blood,  I  ween, 

In  her  divine  translation  of  the  scene. 

There  lies  along  the  lake  her  gorgeous  train, 

Like  myriad  tips  of  flame  the  pines  between, 

To    where    "Mount    Wellington"    overlooks    the 

plain — 
The  lion  of  the  hills,  with  gems  upon  his  mane. 

But  not  enough  to  fill  the  mellowing  air 
With  glowing  radiance  and  odor  sweet ; 
Otsego's  breast  would  fain  the  beauty  share, 
And  in  those  crystal  depths  the  shores  repeat 
The  loveliness  they  wear,  and  at  my  feet 
The  range  of  jeweled  hills  inverted  lies. 
No  more  we  need  to  make  the  scene  complete — 
Still,  let  us  upward  turn  our  grateful  eyes, 
And  find  the  fitting  crown  in  yon  all-perfect  skies. 

The  hour  is  mine,  and  I  am  lost  in  dream : 
Methinks  I  see  Tom  Hutter's  floating  ark; 
I  see  the  laughing  face  of  Judith  gleam 
From  out  the  tinted  foliage — and  hark  1 
The  startling  loon-cry  breaks  upon  the  dark, 
Still  night — and  there,  erect  amid  the  gloom, 
Listens  the  Deerslayer  in  his  birchen  bark. 
I  hear  the  shot  that  speaks  his  foeman's  doom — 
I    see    the    "Indian    Rock" — the    Delaware's    eagle 
plume ! 

59 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

But  he  who  casts  those  shadows  lives  no  more; 
His  dust  of  this  historic  soil  is  part ; 
No  more  will  pictures  of  the  lake  and  shore 
Flash  in  romance  by  the  magician's  art; — 
Forever  stilled  is  that  deep  human  heart! 
Yet  while  these  hills  remain,  these  ripples  play, 
His  name  and  memory  never  can  depart ; 
The  air  he  breathed  shall  cold  oblivion  slay — 
The  giant  pines  he  loved  shall  sentinel  his  clay. 

The  golden  sun  sinks  slowly  to  the  west, 
While  still  the  scene  holds  my  enamoured  eyes — 
And  now  the  rose  and  amber  flushes  rest 
Upon  the  lake,  caught  from  the  changing  skies — 
Alas !  not  long,  and  all  this  beauty  dies ! 
A  little  time,  and  from  his  icy  lair, 
Deep  in  the  north,  grim  Winter  will  arise ; 
His  ruthless  breath  will  blow  the  hillsides  bare, 
And  bind  the  murmuring  wave  in  adamantine  there. 

Yet  not  forever  will  the  change  endure ; 

For  God's  sweet  resurrection  of  the  Spring 

Will  come  at  last,  and  summer  days  as  pure 

Another  year  will  just  as  surely  bring; 

The  flowers   will  bloom   and   Nature's   minstrels 

sing— 

The  "Glimmerglass"  again  in  sunset  glow; 
October  will  descend  on  tinted  wing; 
Her  artist-hand  will  paint  the  mountain's  brow — 
And  I  this  scene  behold  as  I  behold  it  now. 

60 


A   MEMORY 

On  receiving  a  sprig  of  trailing  arbutus  from  Cooperstown,  New  York. 

'TTHRICE  welcome,  rosy  child  of  spring, 
JL  Tho'  but  a  flower  alone; 
To  me,  in  city  life,  you  bring 

A  sweetness  all  your  own. 
The  homely  prose  that  writes  my  day 

Before  my  eyes  grows  dim, 
And,  lying  in  the  lap  of  May, 

I  read  your  forest  hymn. 

It  tells  of  the  awakening  flowers ; 

The  lake's  unfettered  flow ; 
The  resurrection  of  the  hours 

That  died  before  the  snow. 
And  once  again  the  tree-tops  bud, 

The  blue-bird  plumes  his  wing, 
And  scented  winds  blow  thro5  the  wood 

The  kisses  of  the  spring. 

I  think  now  of  the  spot  that  gave 
This  flower  of  mine  its  birth — 

Where  sentinel  pines  guard  COOPER'S  grave 
It  burst  its  shell  of  earth; 
61 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

And  trailing  from  its  sylvan  cave, 

All  silently  it  grew, 
To  bloom  beside  Otsego's  wave, 

That  old  Tom  Hutter  knew. 

I  yield  to  fancy's  haunting  power — 

For  in  that  distant  land, 
I  see  the  same  sweet  wild-wood  flower 

Plucked  by  a  maiden's  hand. 
O  say  not  that  't  is  all  in  vain 

To  dream  that  I  'm  possessed 
Of  flower  whose  kindred  may  have  lain 

On  Judith  Hutter's  breast! 


62 


THE   AUTHOR   OF   "RUDDER 
GRANGE"  IN   A   NEW   ROLE 

STOCKTON'S  HALF-HOURS  OF  READING 

Frank  R.  Stockton  at  one  time  suffered  much  pain  in  his  eyes  and  was  forbidden 
to  read.  The  first  day  that  the  doctor  granted  him  half  an  hour  with  a  book  his 
friends  were  curious  to  know  what  book  he  would  select.  "  Give  me  some  adver- 
tisements," he  demanded,  and  explained,  as  a  shout  was  raised:  "Yes,  I  am  pin- 
ing for  advertisements.  My  wife  has  read  everything  else  aloud  to  me,  but  I 
had  n't  the  heart  to  ask  her  to  read  the  advertisements."  For  several  days  he  de- 
voted the  whole  of  that  precious  half -hour  to  advertisements. — The  Epoch. 

HE  sat  within  his  easy  chair, 
Expectantly  quiescent; 
The  oculist  had  just  been  there, 

And  cheered  the  convalescent; 
"I  grant  you  half  an  hour  each  day 
To  read  what  you  Ve  a  mind  to ; 
No  more,  or  else  you  '11  have  to  pay 
The  cost  of  being  blind,  too." 

Ah,  precious  boon  to  one  whose  eyes 

Have  been  as  simply  locked  ones. 
What  daily  half -hours'  rich  reprise 

Will  now  be  Mr.  Stockton's. 
But  what  will  be  the  chosen  book 

For  minutes  sweet  tho'  fleeting? 
Let  's  in  upon  the  reader  look, 

And  note  the  page  he  's  greeting. 

63 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

Is  it  the  Bard  of  Avon's  song, 

Or  Donnelly's  slice  of  Bacon  ? 
The  Count  of  Monte  Cristo's  wrong, 

Or  Colton's  antique  "Lacon"  ? 
Is  it  the  fun  of  Mark  Twain's  page, 

Or  Wordsworth's  numbers  solemn, 
Or  Rider  Haggard's  latest  rage, 

Or  Howells'  monthly  column  ? 


Not  much.     He  reads  the  glowing  lines 

That  tell  Castoria's  mission; 
He  reads  how  Sozodont  inclines 

The  teeth  for  exhibition; 
He  reads  how  Holman's  Liver  Pad 

Defies  the  ague  hateful. 
And  how  Epps'  Cocoa  is  not  bad, 

But  comforting  and  grateful. 

Of  good  St.  Jacob's  potent  oil 

He  reads  the  unctuous  measure; 
He  reads  that  washing  once  was  toil, 

But  with  Pears'  Soap  't  is  pleasure ; 
He  reads  how  all  the  crushing  woes 

That  make  housekeeping  tragic 
Are  banished  by  Sapolio's 

Obliterating  magic. 

He  reads  that  Little  Liver  Pills 
And  Horsford's  Acid  Phosphate 
64 


The  Author  of  "Rudder  Grange " 

Will  save  from  nervousness  and  chills, 
And  possibly  a  worse  state; 

That  if  impurity  of  blood 

Is  ill  with  which  you  're  ailing 

Then  Sarsaparilla  made  by  Hood 
Is  remedy  unfailing. 

And  so  he  reads  and  never  stops; 

Each  day  his  eyes  begin  it, 
The  legend  of  Pike's  Toothache  Drops 

That  cure  in  half  a  minute, 
The  fine  romance  of  Closing  Sale 

And  Situations  Wanted, 
And  House  to  Let — a  moving  tale — 

He  reads  them  all  undaunted. 

We  Ve  had  Half-hours  with  the  Best 

Of  Famous  Authors  many; 
Now  let  this  simple  lay  suggest 

A  work  as  good  as  any. 
Let  Mr.  Stockton's  mental  pith 

Produce  some  more  surprises — 
Who  would  not  buy  Half-hours  with 

The  Best  of  Advertisers ! 


ASCERTAIN   YOUR   WEIGHT 

A    TOPICAL    REFRAIN 

IN  public  places  nowadays  there  stands  a  handsome 
scale, 

Without  proprietor  or  clerk  to  tell  its  simple  tale ; 
But  passers-by  may  read  the  words  engraved  upon  a 

plate, 

To  "Drop  a  nickel  in  the  slot  and  ascertain  your 
weight." 

A  moral  's  here,  good  people,  if  you  '11  take  a  mo- 
ment's thought, 

A  lesson  for  life  's  guidance  't  is  and  most  succinctly 
taught; 

For  if  it  be  the  part  of  man  to  have  a  bout  with  fate, 

It  surely  is  the  thing  to  do  to  "ascertain  your 
weight." 

So,  if  you  think  that  politics  affords  you  widest  scope, 
If  to  pull  the  wires  deftly  is  your  purpose  and  your 

hope, 

If  you  fancy  that  your  destiny  's  to  glorify  the  state, 
Just  drop  a  nickel  in  the  slot  and  ascertain  your 

weight. 

66 


Ascertain  Your  Weight 

If  you  dream  that  you  're  an  actor,  and  imagine 

you  're  endowed 
With  graces  and  with  gifts  to  win  the  plaudits  of  the 

crowd, 
If  sock  and  buskin  visions  fill  your  soul  with  joy 

elate, 
Just  drop  a  nickel  in  the  slot  and  ascertain  your 

weight. 

If  you  feel  that  you  're  a  poet,  and  by  right  divine 

belong 
To  those  whose  wings  have  borne  them  to  Parnassian 

heights  of  song, 

If  ballades,  rondeaus,  triolets,  you  long  to  incubate, 
Just  drop  a  nickel  in  the  slot  and  ascertain  your 

weight. 


If  you  deem  your  forte  the  story,  and  you  only  ask 

the  chance 
To   run   a   tilt   with   Haggard   in   the   regions   of 

romance, 

If  another  Robert  Elsmere  you  are  eager  to  create, 
Just  drop  a  nickel  in  the  slot  and  ascertain  your 

weight. 

If  you  see  yourself  a  lawyer,  or  a  doctor,  or  a  beau, 
If  you  think  that  as  a  lover  you  could  make  a  touch- 
ing show, 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

If  you  deem  society  the  field  you  ought  to  cultivate, 
Just  drop  a  nickel  in  the  slot  and  ascertain  your 
weight. 

In  short,  whate'er  the  path  to  which  ambition  points 

the  way, 
Repeat  this  legend  to  yourself  ere  yet  you  make 

essay, 

For  it  is  well  that  modesty,  before  it  is  too  late, 
Should  drop  a  nickel  in  the  slot  and  ascertain  its 

weight. 


68 


APPLE    BLOSSOMS 

MY  study  windows  look  upon 
An  orchard  fair  to  see, 
Where  early  birds  have  just  begun 

Their  jocund  revelry; 
And  May's  sweet  breath  has  lingered  there 

Among  the  trees,  I  ween; 
For  in  the  blossoms  that  they  bear 
Her  rosy  lips  are  seen. 

O,  apple  blossoms,  passing  sweet, 

Ye  whisper  of  a  spring, 
When,  lying  at  my  darling's  feet, 

I  watched  your  clustering. 
The  May  was  lovely  then  as  now, 

As  blithely  sang  the  birds ; 
The  wind  that  kissed  us,  murmuring  low, 

Was  softer  than  our  words. 

O,  apple  blossoms,  she  is  dead ! 

And  I  am  here  alone. 
Come  ye  to  be  my  love  instead, 

In  beauty  all  your  own? 
Come,  fair  and  fragrant  as  ye  may, 

And  whiten  every  tree — 
The  withered  ones  she  wore  that  day 

Are  sweeter  far  to  me. 


INSPIRATION 

WHAT  shall  a  poet  do 
When  he  tries  the  Muse  to  woo, 
And  cannot  get  a  view 

Of  the  maid  ? 

Shall  he  give  the  whole  thing  up 
Just  because  there  's  not  a  sup 
Of  inspiration's  cup 
For  his  trade? 


Is  the  Muse  the  only  thing 
That  can  make  a  fellow  sing, 
And  lift  his  fancy's  wing 

In  the  air? 

When  I  say  "the  Muse/'  I  mean 
That  coy  goddess,  Hippocrene, 
For  she  's  the  only  Queen, 

We  declare. 


But  is  it  so  in  truth  ? 
I  think  not  so,  forsooth, 
And  I  mean  to  risk  the  ruth 
That  may  flow; 
70 


Inspiration 

I  mean  to  make  a  break, 
And  for  inspiration's  sake 
Some  familiar  creatures  take, 
Don't  you  know. 


First  a  horse — the  neighing  steed, 
Perhaps  pure  Arabian  breed, 
He  's  a  Pegasus  indeed, 

As  is  fit; 

Though  a  neighing  steed,  I  say, 
If  to  him  for  help  you  pray, 
Do  you  think  he  '11  say  you  nay  ? 

Not  a  bit. 


Then  a  dog — if  ere  your  verse 
Would  love's  constancy  rehearse, 
Here  you  have  it  fond  and  terse, 

I  remark ; 

Or  if  you  wish  to  glide 
Down  life's  sweet  rippling  tide 
With  affection  at  your  side, 

Here  's  your  bark ! 


And  the  cat — ah,  yes,  I  know 
All  the  curses  you  bestow, 
And  how  the  bootjacks  go 
With  a  "scat!" 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

But  if  you  pussy  choose 
(Though,  of  course,  it  is  n't  news), 
You  '11  be  sure  to  have  the  mews, 
Think  of  that ! 

Last  the  hen,  and  on  my  ear 
Falls  the  note  of  chanticleer, 
And  the  distant  hills  appear, 

Touched  with  day; 
And  the  hen  lifts  up  her  voice, 
And  I  feel  my  heart  rejoice, 
For  the  fact  is  I  Ve  made  choice 

Of  a  lay! 


72 


CAPTAIN   CALM 


The  American  schooner  Maggie  Balling  was  lost  off  the  Alaskan  coast  on  Janu- 
ary 10,  1887.  She  was  commanded  and  sailed  by  the  daughter  of  the  late  Captain 
McBonald,  a  girl  of  seventeen,  who  bore  the  singular  name  of  Calm.  She  was 
born  on  the  schooner,  and  the  shores  of  Behring  Sea  constituted  her  world.  On 
the  night  in  question  she  stood  at  the  wheel  when  the  schooner  was  blown  on  a 
reef.  The  mainmast  went  overboard,  carrying  the  only  sailor  with  it,  the  fore- 
mast following,  which  fell  astern.  A  rescuing  party  found  the  almost  lifeless  form 
of  the  girl  captain  hanging  over  the  wheel,  where  she  had  been  crushed  by  the 
falling  spar.  The  "Tribune"  despatch,  from  which  these  particulars  are  taken, 
states  that  she  is  now  dying  from  exposure,  having  braved  the  sea  and  cold  for 
thirty-six  hours. 

SHE  held  the  wheel  on  that  awful  night 
When  the  nearest  port  was  death; 
Her  schooner  from  stem  to  stern  was  white 

With  the  winter's  frozen  breath. 
A  maiden  of  seventeen  years  was  she, 

At  her  father's  side  she  grew, 
Her  cradle  was  rocked  on  Behring  Sea, 
And  that  was  the  world  she  knew. 


Her  father  died  and  the  girl  was  left, 

"Calm"  was  her  given  name; 
The  schooner  was  now  of  skipper  bereft, 

But  the  daughter  was  made  of  flame. 
She  took  command  of  her  father's  craft 

With  a  title  that  none  could  harm, 
And  never  a  seal-hunter  stared  or  laughed 

At  the  sex  of  Captain  Calm. 

73 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

Thus  it  was  that  on  this  awful  night 

She  stood  at  the  schooner's  wheel; 
Her  hand  was  a  woman's,  soft  and  white, 

Her  heart  was  a  heart  of  steel. 
She  watched  the  pulse  of  the  freezing  gale 

As  it  swept  over  Behring  Sea, 
And  never  once  did  her  spirit  quail 

From  the  doom  that  there  might  be. 

Then  a  mighty  wind  blew  the  schooner  sheer 

On  a  reef  with  a  deadly  face, 
The  mainmast  fell  with  all  its  gear 

And  a  sailor  in  its  embrace. 
The  foremast  followed  with  backward  reel — 

O,  why  did  it  fall  so  far  I 
For  the  soft,  white  hand  still  held  the  wheel 

In  the  path  of  the  plunging  spar. 

The  sailor  lived  till  he  told  the  tale, 

Then  sank  in  his  early  grave — 
Next  morn  a  crew  pulled  bravely  through 

The  gallant  lass  to  save. 
They  found  her  living,  helpless,  bent 

'Neath  the  lash  of  winds  and  flood, 
For  the  foremast  in  its  cruel  descent 

Had  crushed  her  where  she  stood. 

And  whether  she  lives  or  dies,  that  wreck 
Will  in  memory  pictured  be; 

74 


Captain  Calm 

We  shall  see  her  standing  upon  the  deck 
'Mid  the  billows  of  Behring  Sea. 

We  shall  dream  of  the  desolate  Polar  shore, 
Of  the  midnight  and  the  blast, 

The  hand  on  the  wheel,  and  the  heart  of  steel 
That  broke  on  the  reef  at  last. 


75 


AN    OLDEN    ECHO 

I  SAW  her  to-day  in  the  crowded  street, 
On  the  arm  of  a  man  of  gold; 
The  image  of  beauty  and  grace  complete, 

As  she  was  in  the  days  of  old. 
Yet  fashion  swept  brilliantly  by,  unseen; 

The  exquisite  ogled  in  vain; 
The  glance  of  the  courted  and  splendid  queen 
Was  loaded  with  cold  disdain. 

A  change  has  come  over  the  lady,  then : 

She  is  tired  of  titled  names ; 
She  is  sick  of  homage  from  brainless  men, 

And  the  gossip  of  soulless  dames. 
Is  the  change  a  something  that  Time  has  sown 

In  the  dew  of  regretful  tears  ? 
A  something  that  into  her  heart  has  grown 

From  the  dust  of  returnless  years? 

She  lives  in  the  house  of  a  millionaire ; 

In  parlors  with  luxury  glossed; 
There  are  diamond  pins  that  she  may  wear, 

There  are  dresses  of  royal  cost. 
Rich  revels  will  rise  at  her  sweet  command, 

For  her  lord  will  never  say  nay — 
Yet  she  seems  not  proud  of  the  golden  hand 

She  has  sworn  to  love  and  obey. 


An  Olden  Echo 

Perhaps  she  remembers  the  vanished  years, 

When  her  home  was  poorer  than  now, 
When  smiles  were  her  portion  instead  of  tears, 

Undreamed  of  jewels  and  show. 
When  the  early  light  of  the  eastern  skies 

Was  a  kiss  on  her  waiting  face, 
Instead  of  a  blaze  in  her  weary  eyes, 

And  a  glare  on  her  gown  of  lace. 

Perhaps  she  remembers  the  robin's  song, 

Instead  of  the  opera-stall; 
Or  the  brook,  where  she  sat  so  oft  and  long, 

To  list  to  its  silver  fall. 
Perhaps  she  remembers  the  dance  in  May, 

Instead  of  the  midnight  waltz, 
And  a  hand  in  which  hers  a  moment  lay — 

A  hand  that  was  bold — not  false! 

She  may  have  a  thought  of  a  night  so  fleet, 

When  she  lingered,  a  maiden  free — 
A  thought  of  the  man  who  knelt  at  her  feet 

'Neath  the  shade  of  the  trysting-tree. 
A  thought  of  a  promise  that  heaven  believed 

Would  never  know  time  nor  change — 
Of  another  promise  the  earth  received, 

But  O,  to  heaven  how  strange! 


77 


THISTLE   AND  VOLUNTEER 

r  I  AHISTLE  came  across  the  sea, 
JL         Volunteer ! 
Sure  of  winning  as  could  be, 

Volunteer ! 

She  had  walked  away  with  ease 
From  the  fleet  on  English  seas, 
And  she  longed  our  cup  to  seize. 

Volunteer ! 

So  she  anchored  in  the  bay, 

Volunteer ! 
And  looked  forward  to  the  day, 

Volunteer ! 

When  her  snowy  wings  should  sweep 
Like  a  wonder  o'er  the  deep, 
And  the  lead  defiant  keep, 

Volunteer ! 

And  the  day  came  on  apace, 

Volunteer ! 
And  they  signaled  for  the  race, 

Volunteer ! 


Thistle  and  Volunteer 

But,  alack,  the  canny  Scot 
At  the  finish  first  was  not, 
And  the  Cup  he  has  not  got, 
Volunteer ! 

They  must  come  and  try  again, 

Volunteer ! 
They  are  gallant  sailor  men; 

Volunteer ! 

But  they  reckoned  without  rue, 
Without  Paine  and  Burgess,  too; 
Faith,  they  reckoned  without  you, 

Volunteer ! 


79 


MY  FLOWER 

Suggested  by  the  popular  feeling  in  favor  of  maintaining  the  Gold  Standard. 

WHAT  flower  shall  the  nation  wear? 
I  hear  a  whisper  say — 
What  symbol  shall  the  patriot  bear 

Upon  his  breast  this  day? 
The  rose  is  passing  sweet,  we  know, 

The  lily  fair  to  see ; 
But,  O,  of  all  the  flowers  that  grow, 
The  golden  rod  for  me. 
The  golden  rod  for  me, 
The  golden  rod  for  me; 
It  seems  to  plead  for  honesty; 
The  golden  rod  for  me. 

The  hedge  rows  mellow  in  its  light; 

Its  plumes  the  children  share; 
Each  yellow  tress  the  winds  caress; 

It  warms  the  autumn  air — 
But  more  than  nature's  raiment  fine, 

Or  flower  that  gilds  the  lea, 
I  take  it  for  a  living  sign, 
The  golden  rod  for  me. 
The  golden  rod  for  me, 
The  golden  rod  for  me; 
Our  land's  fair  fame  lies  in  the  name; 
The  golden  rod  for  me! 
80 


THE   MARCH   TO   CANTON 

Suggested  by  the  frequent  visits  of  the  people  to  the  home  of  William  McKinley 
during  his  first  campaign. 

WHEN  all  the  workers  of  our  land 
Make  pilgrimage  to  Canton, 

And  crowd  to  clasp  the  statesman's  hand 
With  freedom's  fine  abandon; 

When  farm  and  bench  and  forge  and  mill 
Pour  forth  each  day  and  minute, 

This  army  means  the  people's  will — 
There  must  be  something  in  it. 
Be  sure  there  's  something  in  it — 
I  hear  again  the  march  of  men, 
Be  sure  there  's  something  in  it. 

Not  for  a  whim  this  human  drift, 

This  gulf-stream  of  emotion; 
Another  cause  these  hearts  uplift 

And  bear  with  deep  devotion. 
'T  is  not  the  man  love  deifies — 

Not  he  alone  could  win  it — 
But  what  he  stands  for  in  their  eyes, 

Is  what  it  is  that  's  in  it. 

Be  sure  there  's  something  in  it — 

He  stands  confessed  to  all  that  's  best, 

Be  sure  there  's  something  in  it. 
81 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

That  "something"  is  the  Nation's  name 

As  Washington  bequeathed  it; 
The  lasting  glory  of  its  fame 

As  honor's  crown  has  wreathed  it. 
So  let  the  Silver  Bubble  burst, 

And  Bryan's  trumpet  rant  on, 
But  we  will  save  the  country  first, 

And  still  march  on  to  Canton. 

Be  sure  there  's  something  in  it — 

Ah,  never  fear,  whate'er  you  hear, 

Be  sure  McKinley  's  "in  it"! 


82 


TO   E.  F. 

ON    HER    SIXTEENTH    BIRTHDAY 

I  AM  thinking  as  I  sit 
Of  the  years  that  onward  flit, 
And  I  like  it  not  a  bit, 

For  they  mean 
Not  only  that  my  hair 
Is  silvered  here  and  there, 
But  that  Ethel,  I  'm  aware, 
Is  Sixteen ! 

Is  it  possible  ?  I  say — 
Why  it  seems  but  yesterday 
That  she  came  her  love  to  pay 

At  my  door : 
Sweet  vision  of  a  girl, 
With  her  golden  hair  in  curl, 
And  her  feet  in  merry  whirl 

On  the  floor. 

She  is  still  of  joyous  mold, 
Still  her  hair  is  floating  gold, 
And  she  enters,  as  of  old, 
With  a  song; 

83 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

But  she  enters  not  so  pert, 
And  her  feet  are  less  alert, 
And  I  notice  that  her  skirt 
Has  grown  long. 

Ah  me,  't  is  Nature's  will; 
There  are  pulses  yet  to  thrill; 
Would  I  keep  her  standing  still 

All  for  me? 

Would  I  have  her  back  to  ten? 
No,  truly,  no — but  then 
She  will  never  sit  again 

On  my  knee! 

But  then  her  maiden  grace, 

And  the  thought  that  in  her  face 

Has  come  to  take  the  place 

Of  the  elf. 

So  be  sure  that  Nature's  view 
Is  the  best  for  her  and  you, 
And  then  remember  too 

She  's  herself. 

One  thing  is  mine  to  claim — 
Her  love  is  still  the  same 
As  when  it  early  came 

Ne'er  to  cease; 
So  untroubled  be  my  breast, 
May  her  natal  day  be  blest, 
And  may  blessings  ever  rest 

On  my  Niece ! 


GEORGE    ELIOT 

SHE  lies  in  that  fair  land  where  violets  spring, 
And  on  her  grave  may  sweetest  flowers  have 

birth ! 

The  future  pilgrims  to  that  hallowed  earth 
Will  wonder  not  that  they  are  listening, 
As  in  a  dream,  to  voices  whispering 

The  well-known  words  of  wisdom,  hope,  or  mirth, 
That  lifted  life  to  shining  heights  of  worth — 
Now  sighing  in  their  ears  from  Memory's  string. 

The  wind  comes  journeying  from  Avon's  springs; 

Lingers  a  moment  where  memorials  tell 

The  name  of  him  who  left  us  "Christabel" ; 
Then  with  the  gathered  sweetness  of  its  wings 

It  murmurs  on  and  now  a  vigil  keeps 

Beside  the  grave  where  Shakespeare's  sister  sleeps. 


A   RIBBON 

THIS  is  the  place  where  I  bring  my  flowers. 
Here  she  was  buried  five  years  ago ; 
Once  a  year  in  the  summer  hours, 

I  come  to  see  how  the  roses  grow. 
The  youths  and  maidens  have  seen  me  come, 

Their  lips  are  busy  when  I  am  gone ; 

They  cannot  guess  why  I  leave  my  home 

To  set  in  crimson  this  marble  stone. 


Six  summers  ago  I  sought  this  place, 

For  simple  love  of  the  country  skies ; 
I  could  not  boast  of  a  single  face 

To  meet  my  coming  with  friendly  eyes. 
But  a  farmer's  daughter  was  more  than  kind, 

When  I  stopped  that  day  at  a  welcome  well ; 
And  she  shone  in  the  glance  of  my  city  mind 

With  a  nature  as  golden  as  words  could  tell. 


She  daintily  lifted  her  dimpled  arm 
And  gave  me  the  cup  with  native  grace ; 

I  knew  it  was  best  to  be  grave  and  calm — 
Yet  there  was  the  wistful  and  pretty  face ! 
86 


A  Ribbon 

And  so  it  chanced  that  I  often  came 
To  the  shaded  well  and  the  eyes  of  blue ; 

But  I  swear,  for  the  sake  of  her  name  and  fame, 
I  never  did  aught  that  my  soul  shall  rue. 


The  day  I  left  at  the  well  she  sat ; 

I  asked  her  to  give  me  a  parting  cup, 
Then  loosing  the  ribbon  that  bound  my  hat, 

I  playfully  tied  her  ringlets  up. 
"This  will  remind  you  not  to  forget," 

I  said,  as  I  fastened  her  shining  hair — 
Six  are  the  vanished  years,  and  yet 

I  see  her  this  moment  standing  there. 


Autumn  and  winter  went  by  apace, 

And  springtime  followed  with  winged  feet 
Again  I  was  seeking  a  country  place, 

Where  summer  hours  were  calm  and  sweet. 
I  never  knew  anything  half  so  still 

As  the  little  village  I  seemed  to  know; 
And  I  felt  in  my  heart  a  memory  thrill 

Of  a  voice  that  was  music  a  year  ago. 


I  came  to  the  church — on  either  hand, 
Under  the  trees,  in  the  shade  of  the  wall, 

I  saw  the  carriages  clustered  stand, 
Then  I  heard  the  notes  of  an  anthem  fall. 

87 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

"It  is  not  Sunday — some  neighbor  's  dead," 

I  thought,  as  I  looked  towards  the  open  door — 

Yet  why  should  I  enter  with  careful  tread 
'Mid  faces  I  never  had  seen  before? 

The  funeral  service  was  said  and  done; 

A  solemn  pause,  and  the  friends  made  way, 
To  look  their  last  on  the  silent  one 

Who,  cold  and  white,  in  the  coffin  lay. 
I  saw  the  eyes  that  for  love  were  wet ; 

I  saw  the  flowers  that  love  had  brought; 
I  saw  faith's  lesson  lingering  yet 

On  the  lips  of  the  pastor  who  cpoke  and  taught. 

A  stranger  moved  through  the  tearful  throng, 

And  a  moment  stood  by  the  narrow  bed ; 
A  start,  and  his  eyes  were  riveted  long 

On  the  face  of  the  shrouded,  unconscious  dead. 
To  gaze  on  a  beautiful  girl  he  stands, 

Forever  locked  in  her  marble  rest; 
To  gaze  on  a  ribbon  beneath  her  hands, 

And  lovingly  folded  against  her  breast. 


88 


MY   STUDY 

I  WAS  only  a  poet  and  lived  by  my  wits, 
And  very  poor  living  it  was,  I  Ve  been  told, 
When  death,  who  unheralded  fortune  remits, 
A  legacy  left  me  in  gold. 

And  now  I  will  build  me  a  study,  I  thought ; 

A  room  I  have  dreamed  of  for  poet  like  me; 
Not  like  this,  where  so  long  I  have  labored  and 
wrought ; 

But  a  thing  to  inspire  it  shall  be. 

So  I  found  an  abode  that  just  suited  my  case, 
And  I  frescoed  the  ceiling  with  classic  design ; 

And  the  gold-papered  walls  showed  me  many  a  face 
Looking  down  with  regard  upon  mine. 

Of  curious  woods  was  the  floor  of  my  room, 
No  stretches  of  carpet  invited  the  tread ; 

But  luxurious  rugs  from  an  Orient  loom 
Lay  over  the  spaces  instead. 

My  windows  with  curtains  were  hung  rich  and  rare, 
Descending  from  shining  bars,  fold  upon  fold; 

My  doorways  were  each  a  superb  portiere 
Of  velvet  embroidered  with  gold. 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

On  bracket  and  shelf  there  was  choice  bric-a-brac, 
And  treasures  of  art  the  interior  graced, 

Here  a  bust  and  a  vase,  there  a  bronze  and  a  plaque, 
A  blending  of  beauty  and  taste. 

Then  of  pictures,  of  course,  my  walls  were  not  bare ; 

Not  many,  indeed,  but  my  favorite  few — 
Gerome,  Leighton,  Millais,  Cabanel  were  all  there; 

And  a  gem  of  Meissonier's,  too. 

But  my  exquisite  desk  was  the  all  perfect  sum 

Of  my  joy — it  was  something  unique  and  com- 
plete— 

I  fancied  poems  rising  like  incense  therefrom, 
As  I  sank  in  the  soft-cushioned  seat. 

And  now  all  was  done  and  my  future  was  framed, 
The  past  I  regarded  with  pitying  scorn — 

"Let  me  harness  my  Pegasus  quick!"  I  exclaimed, 
"In  the  trappings  he  never  hath  worn." 

With  my  paper  before  me  and  glittering  pen, 

I  lifted  my  eyes  to  the  wealth  that  was  mine — 

I  gazed  round  my  study  again  and  again — 
But  my  paper  received  not  a  line. 

As  I  looked  round  my  room  with  an  air  of  surprise 
That  no  answering  muse  met  my  beckoning  call, 

An  old  print  in  a  corner  arrested  my  eyes 
That  had  no  right  to  be  there  at  all. 
90 


My  Study 

I  remembered  it  well,  but  how  came  it  there  ? 

It  hung  there,  I  'm  sure,  by  no  order  of  mine. 
My  eyes  became  fixed  in  a  petrified  stare 

At  this  relic  of  old  lang  syne. 

I  remembered  it  well — 't  was  a  thing  of  my  choosing 
In  days  when  such  pictures  my  attic  was  bold 
with — 

Doctor  Johnson  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  perusing 
In  the  lodging  of  Oliver  Goldsmith ! 

I  awoke — all  my  splendor  had  melted  to  air; 

Not  a  vestige  remained  of  the  glory  and  gleam ; — 
And  I  sit  in  my  attic,  which  boasts  but  one  chair, 

With  the  pen  that  has  written  a  dream. 


91 


THE   GAME   OF   LOVE 


sweet  Miranda  sat  with  Ferdinand 

J.     While  Ariel's  melody  trembled  on  the  air  ; 
The  Isle  was  peaceful  beneath  Prosperous  wand, 

And  naught  disturbed  the  lovers  sitting  there. 
The  board  with  pieces  set  lay  them  between, 

And  all  was  quiet  in  the  blest  recess  ; 
But  they  thought  not  of  contest  then,  I  ween  — 

Another  game  they  fain  would  play  than  chess. 

And  thus  they  were  discovered  when  the  hour 
Was  ripe  for  their  unveiling  ;  and  the  pair 

Looked  with  amaze  from  the  secluded  bower 
On  those  who  promised  each  a  father's  care. 

So  Shakespeare's  chess-board  bore  the  happy  fate, 
That  each  without  a  check  would  find  a  mate! 


92 


TRUE   TO   PRINCIPLE 

IT  was  a  printer,  bold  and  warm, 
Who  wooed  a  gentle  maid; 
He  was  a  type  and  she  a  form, 
That  could  not  be  gainsaid. 
They  met,  as  such  are  wont  to  meet. 

In  park  and  shady  grove, 
And  there  in  close  communion  sweet 
Compared  their  proofs  of  love. 

One  night  he  softly  stole  an  arm 

Around  her  slender  waist; 
She  trembled  with  a  vague  alarm, 

Then  whispered  he  in  haste: 
"Forgive  me,  dear — fear  nothing,   love, 

But  let  me  here  profess 
How  strongly  I  'm  in  favor  of 

The  freedom  of  the  press." 


93 


TO  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 


One  Thursday  in  November,  1889,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  sent  to  the  Authors 
Club  a  bunch  of  chrysanthemums,  and  as  each  member  entered  he  received  from 
Arthur  Stedman  a  boutonniere  of  the  same.  This  gift  suggested  the  following 


THE  Authors  Club  last  Thursday  night 
Was  Flora's  hour,  I  ween, 
Chrysanthemums  amid  the  light 
Flashed  color  o'er  the  scene ; 
For  every  one  who  entered  there, 

Or  stood  within  the  room, 
Received  your  Arthur's  boutonniere — 
A  memory  and  a  bloom. 

A  memory — yes,  for  he  whose  will 

Evoked  the  floral  charm 
Was  absent,  yet  in  spirit  still 

Was  with  us  bright  and  warm. 
And  so  your  gift  of  flowers  we  wore, 

Responsive  to  love's  claim, 
And  each  upon  his  bosom  bore 

The  fragrance  of  your  name. 


94 


BALLADE    OF   AN   ASS 

I  KNOW  not  if  ancestral  strain 
Has  been  my  fateful  legacy, 
Or  whether  't  is  a  lengthened  train 

Of  follies  acting  potently: 
But  all  my  intimates  agree 

That  when  I  look  into  the  glass 
The  person  mirrored  there  I  see 
Is  always  sure  to  be  an  ass. 


In  social  circles  I  would  fain 

Be  noted  for  my  bonhomie, 
And  yet  a  play  of  wit  in  vain 

I  spring  upon  the  company; 
They  gaze  upon  me  squelchingly : 

And  when  I  later  homeward  pass, 
I  'm  confident  that  I  am  he 

Who  's  always  sure  to  be  an  ass. 


Sometimes  I  give  my  fancy  vein 
And  pen  a  verse  of  poesie, 

I  send  it  to  the  fair  Elaine, 
And  wait  the  issue  joyously 

95 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

(Surely  not  unimpressed  is  she). 

I  never  hear  a  word,  alas, 
Of  all  my  rhymes  that  end  in  "thee," — 

I  'm  always  sure  to  be  an  ass. 

ENVOY 
O  Aesop,  thou  who  wrote  with  glee 

The  fables  of  the  long-eared  class, 
Write  still  another  upon  me — 

I  'm  always  sure  to  be  an  ass. 


INSTINCT   OR   REASON 

THE  original  draft  of  this  tale  was  in  prose, 
But  I  thought  very  likely  there  might  exist 

those 

Who  would  have  no  objection  to  offer  to  verse — 
So  in  that  way  I  purpose  the  same  to  rehearse. 

In  Boston — that  city  of  infinite  wit, 

Where  intellect  somehow  each  week  makes  a  hit; 

Whose  cognomen  "hub"  is  so  wildly  admired, 

That  one  in  pronouncing  it  never  gets  tired. 

In  Boston,  where  everything  must  be  discussed, 

Be  the  subject  indifferent,  or  be  it  august, 

From  the  depth  of  a  spree  to  the  height  of  a  bust, 

How  a  name  should  be  carved,  how  a  fowl  should  be 

trussed ; 

How  a  theatre  builded,  a  tragedy  acted, 
Whether  Hamlet  is  lucid,  or  whether  distracted : 
How  a  lady  should  waltz,  how  manage  the  german, 
Should  the  ballot  forthwith  to  woman  be  given, 
How  a  text  be  selected,  how  written  a  sermon, 
Not  to  mention  the  manner  of  getting  to  Heaven — 
Well,  digression  aside — in  this  wonderful  city 
A  party  once  met  whom  I  thank  for  this  ditty. 
They  had  aired  their  opinions  on  churches  and  priests, 

97 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

Births,  weddings,  divorces,  interments  and  feasts, 
And  were  now  deeply  plunged  in  the  Instinct  of 

Beasts. 

And  some  were  contending,  with  spirit  and  force, 
That  Instinct  was  Reason — for  instance,  a  horse — 
Take  a  horse — what  miraculous  powers  of  mind 
Are  shown  by  this  wonderful  slave  of  mankind! — 
Or  a  dog — can  you  find  a  sagacity,  pray, 
That  looks  more  like  reason  than  that  of  poor  Tray? 
Or  the  monkey — but  stay,  we  must  not  get  so  far  in 
Our  list  as  to  seem  the  disciples  of  Darwin — 
The  horse  and  the  dog  are  enough  to  decide 
That  Instinct  and  Reason  are  closely  allied. 
Then  others  arose  holding  opposite  views, 
And  with  infinite  learning  made  haste  to  infuse 
Such  facts  as  they  happened  to  know  and  were  bold 

with, 

And    instances    principally    borrowed    from    Gold- 
smith— 

And  said  that  beast-reason  was  all  a  pretense, 
There  was  no  such  thing  really  as  animal  sense — 
Unless,  indeed,  pole-cats  had  animal  scents — 
(This  pungent  remark  gave  prodigious  offense). 
And  so  each  debated  and  argued  his  cause, 
Until,  in  the  midst  of  a  general  pause, 
A  member  arose,  who  desired  to  mention 
A  circumstance  worthy  respectful  attention. 
The  years  of  this  gentleman  seemed  to  be  more 
Than  any  of  those  who  had  spoken  before, 
And  his  face  an  expression  of  saintliness  wore — 


Instinct  or  Reason 

An  expression  akin,  as  it  seemeth  to  me, 
In  its  blandness,  to  that  of  the  Heathen  Chinee. 
Yet  Sorrow  her  fingers  had  pressed  on  his  brow, 
And  he  spoke  in  a  voice  that  was  solemn  and  slow. 


"As  a  preface,  my  friends,  I  wish  to  premise 
That  my  story  is  strange,  and  will  cause  some  sur- 
prise ; 

But  of  being  believed  I  'm  religiously  fond, 
And  my  word,  if  you  please,  is  as  good  as  my  bond. 
You  know  my  friend  Simmons,  the  geometrician, 
Who  in  figures,  indeed,  is  a  perfect  magician, 
Whose  problems  and  theorems  out-pascal  Pascal, 
Who  styles  even  Euclid  an  ignorant  rascal — 
Well,  Simmons,  like  other  great  men  I  could  name, 
Who  have  risen  like  him  to  the  turrets  of  fame, 
Will  often  get  drunk,  to  his  blame  and  his  shame. 
Last  Summer,  in  June,  he  was  staying  with  me, 
And  came  home  one  night  from  a  terrible  spree. 
He  's  an  obstinate  man  when  on  one  of  his  tares, 
And  my  strength  was  nigh  gone  when  I  got  him  up- 
stairs ; 

But,  do  what  I  might,  he  would  not  go  to  bed, 
So  he  lay  in  his  shirt  on  the  carpet  instead. 
My  house  is  an  old  one,  and  plenty  of  rats 
Scamper  freely  about  notwithstanding  the  cats ; 
I  don't  mind  'em  myself,  but  I  thought    Simmons 

might, 
Lying  stretched  where  he  did — a  temptation  to  bite. 

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The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

So  I  stooped,  the  poor  fellow  to  lift  from  the  floor, 
But  just  then  my  ears  drank  his  thunderous  snore, 
And  I  thought  to  myself — he  's  all  right,  for  no  rat 
Would  encounter,  unnerved,  a  bass  viol  like  thatl 
Yet  still,  in  one  hole  whence  they  came,  as  I  guessed, 
I  took  the  precaution  of  stuffing  my  vest — 
Then  tumbled  in  bed  and  forgot  all  the  rest. 
Next  morning,  the  moment  my  eyelids  unclosed, 
I  jumped  up  to  see  how  poor  Simmons  reposed. 
There  he  lay,  gently  touched  by  the  dawn's  early 

streaks, 
With  the  hue   of  the  wine   cup   still  flushing  his 

cheeks — 

But  Heavens  and  Earth !  what  a  sight  was  his  shirt ! 
Could  it  possibly  be,  and  the  man  be  unhurt? 
I  turned  to  the  waistcoat-stuffed  hole  in  the  wall, 
The  hole  met  my  gaze,  gaping  wide,  that  was  all ! 
They  had  come  through  the  vest,  no  rats  could  be 

bolder, 
And  had  eaten  Sim's  sleeves  from  the  wrist  to  the 

shoulder. 

But  by  all  the  Saints!  those  rats  knew  so  well 
The  mind  of  the  man  on  whose  linen  they  fell, 
That  Simmons's  shirt  had  been  gnawed  through  and 

through 
In  right  angles,  triangles,  and  parallels,  too!" 

The  meeting  adjourned,  to  announce  in  due  season 
That  Instinct  is  Siamese-brother  to  Reason. 


100 


QUEEN   AND   WOMAN 

On  the  death  of  President  Garfield  the  following  despatch  came  to  Mrs.  Garfield 
from  Queen  Victoria :  "  Words  cannot  express  the  deep  sympathy  I  feel  with  you 
at  this  terrible  moment.  May  God  support  and  comfort  you,  as  He  alone  can." 

GDD'S  blessing  rest  on  England's  Queen, 
Whose  heart  the  message  sped; 
She  saw,  tho'  ocean  rolled  between, 

The  wife  beside  the  dead. 
A  Sovereign  not  from  sorrow  free, 

She  knew  but  love's  command, 
And  o'er  a  thousand  leagues  of  sea 
Stretched  forth  a  Woman's  hand. 

O  gracious  Lady  of  the  Isles, 

Think  not  that  time  shall  dim, 
What  memory  else  his  flight  beguiles, 

Thy  thought  of  her  and  him. 
To-day  and  ever  at  thy  throne 

A  nation  bends  its  knee 
In  willing  chains  and  dares  to  own 

The  love  it  bears  to  thee. 

"Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets," 

Thy  Poet-Laureate  sings, 
And  death  the  seal  of  sorrow  sets 

On  peasants  and  on  kings. 
101 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

Once  more  where  Avon's  water  breaks 
We  hear  thy  Shakespeare  say — 

One  touch  of  nature  surely  makes 
The  whole  world  kin  for  aye! 


102 


Dramatic  Portraits 


This  series  of  Dramatic  Portraits,  with  few  exceptions,  was  written  during 
the  lifetime  of  the  subjects. 

) 


JAMES  WILLIAM  WALLACK 

NOW  Wallack  rises  on  the  backward  gaze, 
The  city's  pride  in  still-remembered  days. 
The  honored  head  of  an  illustrious  line, 
His  part  it  was  the  Drama  to  refine. 
He  left  the  arms  of  Nature  richly  graced, 
And  wooed  his  art  with  spirit  and  with  taste. 
Stage  heroes  gained  from  him  an  added  light, 
And  Shakespeare's  Benedick  was  his  by  right. 
These  in  his  prime;  in  later  life  he  knew 
Erasmus  Bookworm  and  the  vengeful  Jew. 
But  not  his  art  alone  the  public  moved, 
The  man  as  well  as  actor  was  beloved; 
And  Wallack's  name  is  truly  one  of  those 
That  well  deserves  the  best  that  fame  bestows. 


LESTER  WALLACK 

THE  "Mr.  Lester"  of  the  long  ago 
Is  prince  of  light  comedians  even  now. 
Albeit  years  will  do  what  they  are  bid, 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle — that  may  not  be  hid. 
And  so  there  still  survive  the  handsome  face, 
The  voice  of  music  and  the  step  of  grace; 
The  play  of  wit ;  the  gesture  eloquent ; 
The  charm  of  blended  mirth  and  sentiment; 
The  speech  refined,  the  easy  elegance, 
The  fine  resource,  the  swift  intelligence, — 
All  those  remain,  as  salient  as  of  old, 
And  long  in  stage  tradition  will  be  told. 
Tho'  Percy  Ardent  now  is  lost  to  sight, 
And  Harry  Dornton  is  forgotten  quite, 
Those  youthful  heroes  live  and  breathe  to-day 
In  Captain  Absolute  and  Elliot  Gray. 
Never  can  lag  superfluous  on  the  stage 
This  famous  son  of  honored  lineage. 
Long  be  the  day  when  Time  his  debt  shall  claim, 
And  Lester  Wallack  leave  to  lasting  fame. 


1 06 


JAMES   H.  HACKETT 

AS  Yankee,  Hackett  first  appealed  to  fame; 
jLX  Then  Gallic  parts  essayed,  till  Dromio  came. 
The  last  was  symptom  of  another  birth, 
Which  found  development  in  FalstafFs  girth. 
He  could  no  further  go — the  rage  of  Lear, 
The  darkly  frowning  Richard,  vanished  here. 
Lost  in  the  fat  Knight's  humorous  embrace, 
The  tragic  mask  forgot  to  show  its  face ; 
And  when  hereafter  Hackett's  name  we  call, 
T  will  be  as  Falstaff,  first  and  best  of  all. 


107 


DION    BOUCICAULT 

PROLIFIC  Boucicault!  what  verse  may  scan 
The  merits  of  this  many-sided  man? 
A  stage  upholsterer  of  old  renown 
Is  what  an  enemy  would  write  him  down. 
But  let  the  enemy  remember  still 
How  much  we  owe  to  Dion's  cunning  quill. 
What  tho'  in  many  of  his  plays,  perchance, 
There  may  be  hints  of  foraging  in  France! 
Let  us  be  mindful  of  the  genius  shown 
In  those  as  well  as  others  all  his  own. 
There  is  a  land  the  playwright  has  made  sweet, 
And  found  a  laurel  in  the  bog  and  peat. 
Not  yet  have  audiences  joy  out-worn 
To  see  the  "Shaughraun"  and  the  "Colleen  Bawn" ; 
And  Dazzle  may  no  longer  fill  the  scene, 
While  enter  Conn  and  Myles  na  Coppaleen. 


108 


EDWARD   A.  SOTHERN 

OOTHERNwe  miss — and  who  shall  take  his  place? 

O    Nature  and  art  consorted  in  his  race. 

Nature  must  e'en  another  mind  produce, 

And  art  beguile  it  into  cunning  use. 

No  easy  task  to  be  at  once  inane, 

And  irresistibly  absurd  though  sane! 

No  more  't  is  ours  to  sit  with  parted  lip, 

Watching  for  Lord  Dundreary's  glare  and  skip; 

No  more  that  portrait  of  a  master  hand; 

The  lisping  speech,  the  nonsense  wisely  planned ; 

The  word  and  action  held  at  wit's  command. 

Farewell,  Dundreary!  and  in  losing  you 

We  lost  your  Sam  and  Crushed  Tragedian,  too. 


109 


JOHN   T.  RAYMOND 

"  'TVHERE  'S  millions  in  it  1"— words  devoid  of  wit; 
A     But  loud  the  laugh  from  gallery  and  pit 
When  Raymond  gives  them  speculative  tone, 
And  clothes  them  with  a  humor  all  his  own. 
As  drawn  by  Clemens  in  the  "Gilded  Age," 
Sellers  gleams  faintly  on  the  printed  page, 
But  dominates,  in  Raymond,  all  the  stage. 
Long  may  we  live  to  see  before  us  stand 
That  humorous  figure  with  uplifted  hand ! 


no 


CHARLES   FECHTER 

T)OMANTIC  Fechter !  thou  who  made  us  feel 
J\.  The  depth  of  Armand's  love  for  poor  Camille; 
Who  victor  stood  o'er  Pauline's  startled  heart 
E'en  while  her  pride  received  the  galling  dart; — 
For  thee,  fond  memory  pauses  in  the  race 
Of  quick  events,  to  mark  thy  glowing  face. 
Lover  par  excellence,  and  debonair, 
What  Ruy  Bias  like  thine  or  Lagadere? 
The  warmth  of  Italy,  the  grace  of  France, 
Combined  to  make  thee  hero  of  romance. 


IIT 


J.  S.  CLARKE 

METHOD  with  Clarke  has  ever  been  prime  factor, 
And  method  made  him  an  artistic  actor. 
Gifted  with  skill  to  seize  and  to  portray, 
He  gives  his  fine  mimetic  power  full  sway. 
Thus  finished  pictures  from  his  art  arise, 
Which  lure  the  mind  as  they  have  lured  the  eyes. 
A  low  comedian  of  that  better  school, 
That  does  not  think  a  laugh  bespeaks  a  fool. 


112 


MARY  ANDERSON 

IN  THE  "WINTER'S  TALE." 


I  SEE  thee  as  becomes  Sicilia's  Queen, 
Ere  yet  the  flame  has  caught  Leontes'  breast ; 
I  see  thee,  beautiful,  with  gracious  mien, 
Persuade  Polixenes,  the  honored  guest — 
Ah,  stainless  wife,  the  sweetest  and  the  best ! 
I  see  thee  stand  before  the  accusing  King, 
Lit  still  by  chastity's  "clear-pointed  flame" ; 
I  hear  thy  voice  in  the  tribunal  ring 
In  last  appeal  to  great  Apollo's  name, 
Whose  sacred  oracle  makes  white  thy  fame. 

ii 

I  see  thee  in  the  bloom  of  maidenhood 

Make  glad  Bohemia  with  thy  happy  face ; 

Thou  seemst  a  spirit  of  the  glade  and  wood, 

A  dream  of  loveliness  and  sylvan  grace, 

Yet  on  thy  brow  the  stamp  of  royal  race. 

I  hear  thy  voice  of  music  telling  o'er 

The  names  and  story  of  thy  gathered  flowers ; 

I  see  thy  glancing  feet  upon  the  floor 

In  dance  that  wings  with  light  the  fleeting  hours — 

And  all  the  joys  that  Shakespeare  gives  is  ours ! 


The  Siamese  Twins  and  Other  Poems 

m 

Sweet  is  the  memory  of  these  pictures  twain ; 

Sweet  is  the  thought  that  they  are  wholly  thine- 

The  fruitage  of  thy  blended  heart  and  brain 

Glows  in  thy  native  air  a  thing  divine. 

Thou  only  art  interpreter,  I  ween, 

Of  high-born  shepherdess  and  peerless  queen. 


JOSEPH   JEFFERSON 

NO  need  to  chronicle  the  triumphs  won 
By  our  incomparable  Jefferson! 
Long  may  the  old-time  sweetness  of  his  speech 
Dwell  in  our  ears  when  he  shall  cease  to  teach ; 
Long  will  the  memory  hold  his  witching  art, 
As  imaged  in  each  finely  ordered  part, 
Where  laughing  wit  lay  close  to  throbbing  heart — 
The  strut  of  Acres  with  his  paper  frills, 
And  Rip's  deep  slumber  'mid  the  storied  hills. 


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